^<-_ 


THOU  AND   I: 


A    LYRIC    OF    HUMAN    LIFE. 


WITH 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY 


THEODORE    TILTON, 


NEW  YORK: 
R.    WORTHINGTON,    750    BROADWAY. 

MDCCCLXXX. 


COPYRIGHT, 

l879, 
BY  THEODORE  TILTON. 


NEW  YORK:  j.  j.  LITTLE  4  co.,  PRINTERS, 

10   TO   20   ASTOR   PLACE. 


fctfta  Book 

I   INSCRIBE  TO   MY    DEAR   DAUGHTERS, 

FLORENCE  AND  ALICE, 

AS  A 

TESTIMONY  TO  THEIR  FILIAL  DEVOTION, 

AND  A 

TOKEN  OF  THEIR  FATHER'S  LOVE. 


Ps 

Tr 


M189020 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

DEDICATION iii 


PROEM i 

THOU  AND  1 5 

THE  CHANT  CELESTIAL 79 

THE  GRAVE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 99 

THE  JOY  OF  GRIEF 113 

PRINCE  AND  PEASANT 127 

SHORTER  POEMS: 

THE  LORD  OF  THE  LAND 137 

THE  WANDERER'S  SONG 143 

LYRA  INCANTATA 147 

AMONG  THE  REEDS 151 

v 


i 

vi  CONTENTS. 

SHORTER  POEMS — (Continued.}  PVGE 

LONESOME 153 

FLOWN , 155 

CROSS  AND  CRESCENT 157 

THE  BARD'S  LISTENER 160 

MARGERY'S  BEADS 162 

THE  FOUR  SEASONS 165 

THE  ARTLESS  ART 168 

IN  GOD'S  ACRE 172 

FLUTE  AND  LUTE 174 

BONAVENTURA 176 

CUPID'S  PUZZLE 178 

A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  is  A  FRIEND  INDEED 181 

RECOMPENSE 185 

THE  THREE  FATES 188 

THE  MYSTIC  MESSAGE 192 

SIR  MARMADUKE'S  MUSINGS 196 

SHIPWRECK 199 

SERENADE 200 

THE  Two  ROADS 202 

EXPIATION 205 

THE  TRYSTING  PLACE 206 

THE  FRENCH  LESSON 209 

THE  GOATHERD'S  GIFT 213 

THE  FORLORN  HOPE 215 

THE  DEAD  POET .218 


CONTENTS.  vii 

SHORTER  POEMS — (Continued.)  PAGB 

THE  Two  LADDERS 220 

ASTRAY 222 

THE  KING'S  COURAGE 225 

FABELLA 227 

TRANSLATIONS  : 

SIR  OLAF  (from  Heine) 231 

SECRET  AFFINITIES  (from  Gautier) 237 

PYRRIIA  (from  Horace) 242 

THE  KING  OF  THULE  (from  Goethe) 245 

FINAI.K 248 

APPENDIX  : 
NOTES 251 


PROEM. 


Go,  little  book,  a  pilgrim  through  the  land, 
And  beg  a  minstrel's  welcome  here  and  there  ; 
But  be  content,  hoivever  thou  shalt  fare, — 
In  cottage  lowly,  or  in  castle  grand. 
And  if,  of  those  who  take  thcc  by  the  hand, 
Some  bid  thee  enter  where  the  hearth  is  bare — 
Where  love  is  slain — where  grief  hath  wrought  de 
spair, — 

Thou  too  the  lore  of  pain  dost  understand  ! 
Thou  too  hast  agonized  when  love  ivas  dead  ! 
Where  sorrow  dwelleth,  there  dost  thou  belong ! 
Thou  art  not  alien  where  a  tear  is  shed  ! 
So  they  who  love  and  weep  may  heed  thy  song  : 
A  song  of  sorrow  not  too  sadly  sung. 
—  What  bard  can  sing,  except  his  Jieart  be  wrung  / 


THOU   AND   I: 

A   LYRIC  OF   HUMAN   LIFE. 


THOU   AND   I. 


I. 

"THOU  and  I!" 
Cried  he,  an  urchin  gay ; 
"  Let  us  go  forth  to  play, 
Just  we  ourselves,  we  twain  !  " 

Then,  to  the  rock-bound  main, " 
Along  the  billow-beaten  strand, 
Amid  the  flying  spray, 
He  led  her  by  her  tiny  hand, — 
And,  just  above  the  water's  reach, 
They  sat  together  on  the  beach, 


THOU  AND  L 

And  piled  the  shells  and  sand 
Into  a  palace  grand. 
They  built  it  like  Aladdin's  tower, — 
Begun  and  finished  in  an  hour. 

The  builders  thought  the  building 
A  marvel  to  behold, 
For  fancy  gave  it  gilding 
More  golden  than  of  gold. 

The  Caliphs  of  the  days  of  old 

Had  never  such  a  royal  court 

As  did  those  children  in  their  sport. 

"  I  now  am  king,"  cried  he  ; 
"  And  I  am  queen,"  said  she. 

Then,  over  land  and  sea, 
They  held  imperial  sway, 
One  livelong  day  ; — 


7HOU  AND  I. 

A  happy  day,  whose  sun 
Went  down  on  love  begun 
And  twain  made  one  ! 


THOU  AND  I. 


II. 

"  THOU  and  I ! " 

Said  he,  in  graver  tone, — 

Man-grown, — 

Thick-bearded, — at  her  side ; 

A  bridegroom  by  his  bride ; 

The  twain  more  royal  than  before, 

Though  king  and  queen  no  more. 

Then,  forth  from  the  cathedral  door, 

They  stepped  on  flowery  ground, 

And  gazed  around, — 

From  south  to  north, 

From  east  to  west, — 

In  sweet  bewilderment  profound 

At  which  of  all  the  roads  seemed  best, 


THOU  AND  I. 

Till,  choosing  one  that  led 

They  knew  not  where, 

The  never-parting  pair,— 

Brave  man,  fair  wife,— 

Began,  with  joint  and  jocund  tread, 

Their  pilgrimage  of  life. 


And  though  the  path  was  never  straight, 

But  ever  winding, 

And  hard  of  finding, — 

Yet  on  they  went,  with  hearts  elate  ; 

For  Hope  is  not  afraid  of  Fate. 


"  Dear  love,"  said  he,  "  the  world  is  wide, 

But  howsoever  wide  it  be, 

It  hath  no  land  nor  sea 

To  sunder  thee  and  me : 

So  follow  thou  where  I  shall  guide. 


10  THOU  AND  I. 

"  Beyond  the  mountains  is  a  spot, — 
A  bosky  dell, 

With  many  a  shepherd's  lowly  cot : 
Arcadia,  whereof  poets  tell : — 

"  A  land  where  all  is  well ; 

Where  they  who  tarry  sorrow  not ; 

Where  happiness  is  each  one's  lot ; 

Where  heart  from  heart  is  never  rent, 

Nor  faith  betrayed 

By  man  or  maid, — 

And  lovers  never  love  in  vain  ; 

"  For,  in  Arcadia's  flowery  plain, 

Its  ancient  goddess,  still  divine, 

Our  Mother  Mighty, 

Great  Aphrodite", 

Hath  willed  that  her  unruined  shrine 

Forever  shall  remain  ; 

Which  shepherdess  and  swain 


THOU  AND  L  u 

Shall  each  new  day  entwine 

With  fresh  red  roses,  and  white  lilies, 

And  yellow  daffodillies, 

And  many  a  tangled  eglantine, 

And  sacred  ivy  vine, — 

To  grace  the  holy  fane ; — 

That  so  love's  altar,  ever  newly  decked, 

May  suffer  no  neglect, 

And  love  may  never  wane ; 

"  That   never  more,  like  sorrowing  Clitc, 

Or  jealous  Amphitritc, 

Or  Ariadn£  by  the  main, 

Shall  any  maiden  pine 

With  love-sick  pain,— 

Nor  sigh,  through  vigil  long, 

For  love  that  came  and  went, — 

Nor  grieve  at  passion's  false  intent, — 

Nor  bear  the  world's  disdain, 

Nor  self-reproach  for  wrong ; — 


I2  THOU  AND  I. 

"  For  there,  once  plighted  at  that  altar, 

Troth  shall  not  fail  nor  falter, — 

Love  shall  have  nothing  to  repent, 

Pride,  nothing  to  resent, — 

But  golden  days  in  peace  be  spent, 

And  silvery  nights 

Bring  pure  delights  : — 

"  A  land  whose  stilly  air  excludes 

All  loud  alarm ; 

Where,  through  the  solemn  solitudes, 

A  soft  enchantment  ever  broods, 

Beneath  whose  tranquil  charm 

No  creatures  lurk  that  hurt  or  harm  ; — 

No  serpents  in  the  grasses  creep  ; 

No  wolves  prowl  round  the  sheep ; 

No  hungry  hawks  molest 

The  pendulous,  wind-blown  nest 

Wherein  the  oriole  sways  and  swings ; 

No  scorpion  stings ; 


THOU  AND  I. 

No  thorn  is  rapier  to  the  rose ; 

No  deadly  nightshade  grows, — 

Nor  that  strange  herb  of  Trebizond 

Of  which  the  bee,  too  fond, 

Makes  honey  maddening  to  the  brain ; 

Nor  that  wild  vine  which  Tamerlane 

Sought  out  in  Samarcand, — 

Whose  leaves,  by  noxious  breezes  fanned, 

Grew  lush  with  juices  to  anoint 

His  dagger's  point, 

That  dealt  a  death  with  every  blow ; 

Nor,  by  the  wayside,  as  we  go, 

Lurks  any  brier  of  poisonous  bane 

To  prick,  O  love,  thy  soft  white  hand 

While  plucking  blossoms  through  the  land ; 

Nor  grows  that  gloomy  tree  of  woe — 

That  fatal  mistletoe — 

Whose  branches  the  Blind  Thrower  flings 

(With  death  upon  their  wings) 

At  Balder,  prince  of  kings, 


I4  THOU  AND  I. 

To  end  his  reign  ; 

"  Nor,  in  that  pilgrim-trod  domain, 
Lies  any  wounding  stone,  O  sweet, 
To  vex  thy  feet, — 
Nor  cutting  flint,  nor  cruel  shard ; 
But  thou  shalt  softly  pass- 
On  mosses,  and  lamb-nibbled  grass — 
Through  shady  glen,  and  leafy  lane, 
Where  all  the  rocks,  however  hard, 
Are  piteous  as  when  Edda's  bard 
Saw  every  pebble  weep  for  Balder  slain ! 

"  And  though  in  other  lands,  elsewhere, 

The  earth,  that  men  call  fair, 

Hath  even  in  its  greenness 

Some  mildew,  some  uncleanness, — 

Yet,  in  Arcadia's  fairer  zone, 

No  blasting  blight  is  known  ; 

Nor  fades  a  flower  that  once  hath  blown  ; 


THOU  AND   /.  15 

Nor  is  there  wilderness,  nor  waste, — 

Like  wild  Sahara ; 

Nor  font  of  bitter  taste,— 

Like  Marah ; 

Nor  bog  Serbonian ; 

Nor  ignis  fatuus  of  the  fen, 

To  tempt  unwary  men  ; 

Nor  vapor  Acheronian ; 

Nor  charnel  odor  foul ; 

Nor  jackal's  mournful  howl ; 

Nor  outcry  of  the  owl ; — 

"  But  every  meadow  is  as  green 
As  that  enameled  turf,  once  seen 
Ere  yet  Apollo  ceased  to  rove 
Through  Daphne's  grove ; — 

"  And  every  fountain  is  as  cool 
As  that  unfathomable  pool 
Where  Mimir,  every  morn, 
Once  lifted  high  his  dripping  horn  ; — 


!6  THOU  AND  I. 

"  And  every  murmur  is  as  sweet 

As  when;  by  summer's  heat, 

The  lute  is  mellowed  and  unstrung, — 

Not  sounding,  only  sighing  ; 

Or  when,  in  topmost  flight, 

Heard  faintly,  out  of  sight, 

The  lark  sings,  flying  ; 

Or  when,  at  dead  of  night, 

Leaves  rustle  which  the  dews  are  sprinkling ; 

Or  when  Titania's  bells 

(The  tiniest  ever  rung) 

Are  suddenly  set  tinkling 

To  call  the  fairies  from  afar 

To  Candahar. 


"  But,  O  sweet  love,  these  words  of  mine 

Are  harsh  and  grating, 

And  fail  in  the  relating 

How  those  Arcadian  notes  combine, — 


THOU  AND  I. 

Now  sinking,  and  now  swelling, — 
So  clear,  and  yet  so  faint  and  fine 
That  the  tale  needeth,  in  the  telling, 
A  voice  as  sweet  as  thine ! 


"  For,  in  Arcadia's  tuneful  seat, 

Each  sound  with  which  the  air  is  stirred, 

Each  note,  though  warbled,  hummed,  or  whirred, 

Of  singing  bird, 

Or  buzzing  bee, 

Or  the  cicada  on  the  tree, 

Or  cattle  lowing, 

Or  wild  wind  blowing, — 

All  take  their  wondrous  tunes 

From  those  immortal  runes 

That  first  were  heard, 

And  first  were  sung, 

By  Him  who,  when  the  world  was  young, 

Nine  days  upon  Ygdrasil  hung, — 


18  THOU  AND  I. 

Self-wounded  with  his  sacred  spear, 
To  consecrate  his  listening  ear 
And  hallow  his  intoning  tongue. 

"  O  bonny  bride  ! — 

In  that  rose-red  retreat, — 

In  that  Arcadian  vale,— 

There  comes,  as  in  Endymion's  dale, 

No  snow,  nor  hail, 

Nor  rain,  nor  sleet, 

Nor  wind — except  the  wooing  gale 

That  lulled,  and  lullabied, 

And  kissed  Endymion  till  he  died  ; 

Or  only  feigned  to  die,  instead, — 

Too  godlike  to  be  dead, — 

Asleep  in  love's  sweet  swoon,  to  wake 

For  pale  Selena's  sake, 

Who  watched  above  him,  open-eyed  : — 

"  A  land  that  hath  no  winter's  day, 
But  where  the  year  is  always  May : — 


THOU  AND  I.  jg 

And  where,  O  love,  the  azure  skies 

Are  blue  as  thy  blue  eyes, — 

But  not  so  tearless  ! — for,  they  say, 

Those  heavens,  unwracked  by  thunderous  storm, 

Unswept  by  rainy  wind, 

Drip  with  bejeweled  dews ; 

Outgleaming  all  the  pearls  of  Orm, 

Outflashing  all  the  gems  of  Ind ; 

More  rich  than  lover  dares  to  choose 

Wherewith  to  deck  the  maid  he  woos ; 

Each  drop  more  crystal  pure 

Than  wet  the  sandals  of  the  Jews 

On  Hermon's  dew-besprinkled  hill, 

Or  than  the  chilly  heavens  distill 

On  Finland's  frost-bespangled  moor ; 

Nor  do  they  vanish  but  endure ; 

At  blazing  noon  they  glitter  still ; 

Not  all  the  summer's  fiery  day 

Can  waste  those  deathless  dews  away ; 

Bestrewing  the  moist  meads 

With  ever-sparkling  beads, 


20  THOU  AND  I. 

That  dry  not  as  on  Gideon's  fleece; 
For  never  can  their  shining  cease ; 
Their  lustres  they  can  never  lose  ;— 
Immortal  as  the  dripping  ooze 
That  trickles  in  each  fabled  fount 
Of  Helicon's  twin-watered  mount, — 
Or  as  the  drops  that  fill 
Castalia's  naiad-haunted  rill, 
Beloved  of  every  muse:— 


"  A  land  of  perfect  peace  ; 

For,  as  when  Orpheus  smote  his  shell, 

Wild  beasts,  though  dabbled  all  with  gore, 

No  longer  one  another  tore, 

But,  to  the  strain  entrancing 

That  set  them  dancing, 

The  lion  did  with  leopard  leap, 

And  did  a  concord  keep,— 

So,  in  that  vale  of  asphodel, 


THOU  AND  I.  21 

Fierce  men  those  furies  quell 

Which  elsewhere  through  their  bosoms  sweep 

With  passion-panting  swell, — 

All  tamed  in  that  enchanting  place 

To  gentle  grace  : — 

"  A  land,  dear  heart,  of  heart's  content ; 

Where  eyes,  whose  tears  once  fell, 

Have  not  a  woe  to  weep ; 

Where  neither  murmur,  nor  lament, 

Nor  discord,  nor  dissent, 

Nor  sob,  nor  sigh 

Disturbs  the  halcyon  spell, — 

But  life  and  love  are  sweetly  blent, 

Harmonious  as  a  marriage-bell ! 


"  And,  look !  the  valley  seems  to  lie, 
Not  distant,  but  near  by, — 
Where  yonder  white  doves  fly  ! 


22  7HOU  AND  I. 

"  So  let  us,  thou  and  I, 

Go  thither  and  there  dwell !  " 

—Then,  starting  ere  the  dews  were  dry, 
When  flowers  are  sweetest  in  their  smell, 
And  hasting  onward,  blithe  and  gay, — 
Albeit  uncertain  of  the  way, 
But  only  toward  Arcadia  bent, — 
The  lovers  thither  wandering  went 
To  pitch  their  tent. 


7HOU  AND  I.  23 


III. 

"Tnou  and  I  !" 

Again  to  her  quoth  he. 

"  Come  sit  with  me 

Beneath  this  mulberry-tree, 

And  watch  our  children  romp  and  play. 

How  wild  they  are,  and  gay ! 

How  light  and  free  ! 

O  blessed  is  the  children's  glee ! 

Let  them  enjoy  it  while  they  may — 

It  cannot  last — it  will  not  stay! 

Now,  eager  for  the  race, 

They  dash  away, 

With  flying  feet,  and  glowing  face, 

To  leap  and  bound, 

Like  hare  and  hound, 


24  THOU  AND  I. 

And  hunt  each  other  round  and  round ; 

Now,  weary  of  the  chase, 

The  bonny  band 

All  panting  stand ; 

Now  sit  in  circle  on  the  ground ; 

And  now,  like  busy  elves, 

Each  digs  and  delves,  ' 

And  builds  of  clay 

A  palace  as  we  did  ourselves, — 

On  that  far-off  and  happy  day 

Beside  the  rock-bound  sea ! 


"  O  thou  and  I,  once  young  as  they, 
How  now  is  life  with  thee  and  me? 


"  When  first  we  started  forth  together, 
The  morning  dews  were  on  the  heather ; 
But  now  the  lark  has  done  his  tune ; 
The  dial  vergeth  to  the  noon ; 


THOU  AND  /. 

And,  though  we  breast  the  breezy  weather, 
The  midday  sun  fatigues  us  soon, — 
Fatigues  us  more  than  when  we  crossed 
Those  mountains  where  our  way  we  lost ! 
So  let  us  rest  a  little  now. 


"  I  just  discover  on  thy  brow 

An  ornament  so  passing  fair 

That  not  the  like  did  Venus  wear, — 

A  single  thread  of  silver  hair ; 

As  silvery  as  if  finger-frayed 

Or  wind-plucked  from  Diana's  braid  ; 

Yea,  silvery  more  than  silver-bright,— 

As  if,  at  very  zenith-height, 

Apollo's  chariot,  in  its  flight, 

Had  crossed,  at  noon,  the  orb  of  night 

And  jarred  its  rays,  and  loosened  down 

Upon  thy  sunlit  tresses  brown 

A  moonbeam  also  for  a  crown ! 
2 


26  THOU  AND  I. 

"  O  love,  there  is  a  rhyme  that  sings 

How  Time,  with  the  keen  scythe  he  swings, 

Cuts  down  all  living  things ; 

But  false  is  every  fable 

That  vainly  so  pretends — 

For  Time  is  never  able, 

Though  keen  the  blade  he  wieldeth, 

To  pierce  what  honor  shieldeth, 

Or  wound  Avhat  faith  defends  ; 

His  powerful  stroke 

May  fell  the  century  oak, 

But  faithful  love  he  cannot  kill, 

Assault  it  as  he  will. 

"  O  tried  and  true  ! 

There  is  a  love  that,  soon  or  late, 

Turns  first  to  anger,  then  to  hate, 

Until  the  heart  unmates  its  mate 

And  cuts  the  cord  in  two. 

But  thou  and  I,  who  loved  of  yore, 


THOU  AND  L  27 

Love  on  forever,  as  before, — 

Not  less  and  less,  but  more  and  more ! 


"  So  though  we  sought,  but  never  found, 
The  fabled  and  enchanted  ground 
Where  bloom  Arcadia's  happy  bowers, 
Behold  what  pleasant  fruits  and  flowers 
Grow  in  this  garden  here  of  ours ! 


"  What  fairer  apples  can  there  be 

Than  here  fall  golden  from  the  tree  ? — 

As  round,  and  ripe,  and  splendid 

As  those  Iduna  watched  and  tended, — 

Which,  in  that  Hyperborean  clime 

Where  gods  grew  old  before  their  time, 

The  goddess,  with  her  heavenly  hand, 

Fed  to  the  hoary-bearded  band 

Till  each  regained  his  youth  and  prime. 


28  THOU  AND  /. 

"  What  purpler  grapes  have  ever  blushed 

Than  here  hang  waiting  to  be  crushed  ? 

As  luscious  are  they  in  their  look 

As  if  they  grew  by  Eschol's  brook, 

Or  ripened  red  in  serried  ranks 

On  old  Engeddi's  terraced  banks, 

Or  burst  and  bled 

Beneath  the  tread 

Of  Judah's  wine-press,  flowing  still 

On  ancient  Zion's  vine-clad  hill, 

Whose  crimson  clusters 

Hold  all  the  lustres 

Of  all  the  summer  suns  that  shine 

To  flush  the  wine. 

"  What  whiter  lilies  ever  blow 

Than  here  outgleam  th'  Iberian  snow  ? 

Or  frosty  wind-flower  of  the  spring  ? 

Or  crested  waves  that  whiten 

When  blown  by  trumpet  of  the  Triton  ? 

Or  Jove's  white  wing 


THOU  AND  I.  29 

When  he,  a  swan,  in  Leda's  arms 
Out-blanched  their  charms  ? 

"  What  myrtles  yield  a  sweeter  bloom 
Than  thou  and  I  have  here  entwined  ? — 
None  since  that  doleful  day  of  doom 
When,  as  Medina's  maids  relate, 
The  exiled  Adam  and  his  mate 
Bore  with  them,  out  of  Eden's  gate, 
A  myrtle-flower,  to  keep  in  mind 
The  sweetness  they  had  left  behind. 

"  So,  as  for  thee  and  me,  what  though, 
As  in  the  holy  Hebrew  tale, 
The  Nile  forget  to  overflow, 
And  Egypt's  harvests  fail  ? 
Yet  still,  of  all  our  sunny  fields, 
Not  one  but  yields 
A  laden  wain 
Of  golden  grain 


30  THOU  AND  I. 

To  threshing-floor  and  flail ! 

For  all  the  dews  of  night  and  morn 

Are  garnered  in  our  corn, 

And  all  the  showers  that  come  and  pass 

Are  treasured  in  our  grass. 


"  Let  Famine,  wan  and  pale, 

Thin-visaged  and  forlorn, 

Sit  wasting  where  she  will : 

But  here  is  Plenty's  horn, 

Which,  as  of  old,  so  still 

She  empties  but  to  fill, 

And  fills  to  empty,  each  in  turn, 

Until, 

Like  Neptune's  urn, 

Through  which  the  endless  rivers  roared, 

It  ever  full  is  stored, 

Yet  ever  forth  is  poured, 

With  ever-emptying,  never-emptied  hoard. 


7/fOU  AND  L  3! 

"  So,  for  the  abundance  on  our  board, 
We  praise  the  Lord  ! 

"  Or,  if  the  skies  bring  hurricanes, 

And  oak  and  vine  uprooted  lie, 

And  harvests  mildew  in  the  rains, 

And  fig  and  olive  fail  and  die, — 

Who  is  it  murmurs  or  complains? 

It  is  not  thou — it  is  not  I. 

For  God  who  takes,  like  God  who  gives, 

Is  God  the  same — 

All  glory  to  His  name  ! 

So  if  He  gives,  or  if  He  takes, 

It  still  is  for  our  sakes. 

"  From  the  high  Heaven  in  which  He  lives, 
To  the  low  earth  on  which  He  reigns, 
He  to  the  sons  of  men  ordains  "* 

That  ills  (as  mortals  call  them) 
Shall  evermore  befall  them  ! 


THOU  AND  I. 

"  Forecast  in  God's  eternal  plan 

Are  good  and  evil  unto  man, — 

No  less  of  evil  than  of  good : 

Strange  mystery,  never  understood  ! 

But  if  the  wind  that  bloweth 

So  cometh  and  so  goeth 

That  whence  or  whither  no  man  knoweth, 

Who  then  shall  understand 

The  counsel  dark,  the  purpose  dim, 

And  all  the  secret  ways  of  Him 

Who  holds  the  winds  within  His  hand? 

"  Of  all  the  gifts  that  Heaven  bestoweth, 
The  rod  of  God's  affliction 
Is  man's  best  benediction. 

"  If  first  there  cometh  laughter— 
Or  jest — or  jubilation, — 
Then,  swiftly  after, 
God  sendeth  lamentation ! 


THOU  AND   I. 

"  Good  is  not  good,  if  single ; 
So  good  and  evil  intermingle. 
The  gold  hath  need  of  the  alloy. 
Js  Heaven  a  place  of  perfect  joy? 
Not  if,  of  joys,  it  lacks  the  chief — 
The  joy  of  grief. 

"  Had  Heaven  to  such  an  earth  as  this 

Decreed  a  perfect  bliss, 

Then  men,  unmanned  by  such  a  scheme, 

Would  say,  '  Now  we  may  doze  and  dream, 

Or  take  our  ease  in  idle  state, 

And  indolently  wait 

While  bounteous  Heaven  itself  fulfilleth 

Our  happy  fate.' 

"  Instead  whereof,  God  willeth 

That  man  shall  labor,  long  and  late,— 

With  struggle,  sweat,  and  groan ; 

For  not  a  field  he  tilleth 

Is  his  to  reap  except  as  he  hath  sown. 


34  THOU  AND  I. 

"  The  world  is  full  of  woe  and  sin  : 

Fresh  griefs  invade  it  day  by  day. 

How  dare  they  thus  intrude  therein  ? 

By  what  strange  warrant  tarry  they  ? 

Could  mortal  miseries  come  or  stay, 

Were  Heaven  to  will  them  once  away? 

If  God  be  God,  and  none  but  He, 

Then  how,  against  His  high  decree, 

Could  such  things  be? 

Or  how,  upon  the  cassia-tree, 

Could  cankers  grow  ? 

Or  locusts  gnaw  the  lily-leaf? 

Or  rotting  rust 

Despoil  the  harvest-sheaf 

While  hunger  crieth  for  a  crust? 

Or  human  bosoms  burn  with  lust? 

Or  plague  stalk  to  and  fro  ? 

Or  graves  be  dug,  and  hearts  laid  low? 


THOU  AND  /.  35 

"  Men  little  know, 

While  they  to  Heaven  are  suing 

For  all  the  blessings  of  the  blest, 

That  oft  the  miseries  they  are  ruing 

Are  God's  own  doing, 

Who  knoweth  best. 

The  Judge  of  all  the  earth  is  just: 

Then  all  His  judgments,  too,  arc  so. 

Whatever  drops  of  sorrow  flow, 

Or  spear  into  the  soul  is  thrust, 

Or  fiery  bolt  the  bosom  sears 

With  heat  unquenchable  by  tears,— 

Whatever  may  befall, 

God's  love  is  in  it  all. 

"  Now  it  is  Heaven's  behest, 

That  every  heaving  human  breast, 

Instead  of  finding  rest, 

Shall  thrill  with  joys — shall  throb  with  aches— 

Until  it  glows — until  it  breaks  ;— 


36  THOU  AND  I. 

That  good  and  ill — that  weal  and  woe- 
Like  equal  forces,  foe  to  foe — 
Shall  in  the  bosom  strive  and  strain, 
Each  its  own  empire  to  maintain, 
Till,  wearied,  panting,  out  of  breath, 
The  fainting  heart  at  last  shall  feel, — 
Whichever  triumphs,  woe  or  weal, — 
Be  fortune  high,  or  fortune  low, 
It  matters  not  how  goes  the  strife, 
Since  Love,  and  Love  alone,  is  life ! 
'  For  I  am  fickle/  Fortune  saith,— 
But  Love  is  faithful  unto  death. 

"  In  all  our  losses,  all  our  gains, 
In  all  our  pleasures,  all  our  pains, 
The  life  of  life  is, — Love  remains. 

"  In  every  change  from  good  to  ill, — 

If  love  continue  still, 

Let  happen  then  what  will. 


THOU  AND  L  37 

"  Come  wildest  storm  that  ever  burst ! 

Let  the  tornado  blow ! 

Come  crash  and  overthrow ! 

Let  fate,  accurst, 

Fulfill  its  worst, — 

Heaven's  bolt  without  Heaven's  bow ! 

Be  all  our  treasures  scattered  wide, — 

Till  joy,  and  pride, 

And  hope,  and  all  beside 

Be  to  the  wild  winds  strown, — 

All  tempest-blown 

To  coasts  unknown, — 

All  swept  beyond  recall, — 

All,  all  save  love  alone, — 

Yet  love  alone  is  all  in  all ! 

"  If  love  abide, 

If  love  endure, — 

Strong  through  its  sufferings  borne, 

And,  through  its  sorrows,  pure, — 


THOU  AND  I. 

Then,  whatsoever  test 

Prove  other  precious  things  unsure ; 

Whatever  cup  of  pleasure — 

Filled  high  to  over-measure — 

Be  spilled  and  wasted 

Ere  it  be  tasted  ; 

Whatever  plume  the  Fates  have  shorn 

From  Fortune's  crest ; 

Whatever  losses  men  may  mourn  ; 

Whatever  be  the  prize— the  treasure 

Whereof  the  soul  is  dispossessed  ;— 

Whoso  hath  love  can  lose  the  rest 

And  still  be  blest ! 

"  Love,  homeless  and  forlorn  ; 

Love,  beggared,  tattered,  torn ; 

Love,  robbed  by  fate 

Of  all  its  fair  estate 

Till  nought  remains  its  own  ; — 

No  pillow  for  its  head 

Except  a  stone, — 


THOU  AND  I.  39 

Whereon,  from  night  till  morn, 

Its  temples  beat 

With  fever  heat ; 

No  sandals  for  its  feet, — 

Till,  naked  to  the  thorn, 

The  trail  they  tread 

Is  tinged  at  last  blood-red ; 

No  pilgrim's  scallop-shell, 

Nor  wayside  well 

Wherein  to  dip 

To  cool  its  parching  lip  ; 

No  wild  bees'  honey  sweet, 

But  only  bitter  bread  to  eat, 

With  wine  of  gall ; — 

"  Love,  even  so  distraught, 

So  stripped  of  all  things,  so  bereft 

That  only  its  own  self  is  left, — 

Love,  perfect  still, 

And  fearing  nought, 


40  THOU  AND  L 

Though  losing  all, — 

Love,  love, — which  no  despair  can  kill, 

Nor  misery  can  appal, — 

From  its  deep  depths  of  woe  shall  call, 

And  shall  of  Heaven  a  boon  implore ; 

And  what  shall  be  Love's  prayer  ? 

No  plea  of  empty  palms 

For  beggar's  alms  ! — 

No  golden  dross 

For  recompense  of  loss ! — 

No  sheltering  hut  nor  hall  !— 

No  heritage,  how  great  or  small ! — 

No  stock,  nor  store ! — 

Nor  aught  of  all  it  had  before, 

In  happier  days  of  yore, 

Save  only  its  old  touch  and  thrill 

To  work  its  wondrous  will, 

And  knit  two  hearts  together  still, 

Twain  one  forevermore ! 


THOU  AND  J.  4I 

"  O  winsome  wife,  we  know, — 

The  further  into  life  we  go, — 

There  is  no  power  on  earth  below, 

No  power  in  Heaven  above, 

No  power  of  all  the  powers  of  hell, 

Where  all  the  powerful  passions  dwell, — 

No  power  to  do,  no  power  to  bear, 

In  bliss,  in  anguish,  in  despair, 

In  everything  and  everywhere, — 

No  power  omnipotent  as  love  ! 

"  O  marvellous  was  the  might  sublime 
That  mighty  minstrels  chanted  of, 
In  many  a  high  heroic  rhyme, 
Of  giants  of  the  olden  time  ! — 

"  They  sang  how,  all  distained  with  grime, 
Each  panting  Argonaut, 

When  home  the  Golden  Fleece  was  brought, — 
In  sweaty  phalanx,  all  as  one, 


A~  THOU  AND  I. 

42 

On  many  groaning  shoulders  bore 
Their  huge  ship  up  the  shore. 

"  They  sang  how  writhingly  were  wrought 
The  twelve  great  toils,— 
The  weariest  ever  done 
Beneath  th'  unpitying  sun. 

"  They  sang  how  fuming  was  the  fret 

Of  him  who,  in  the  viewless  net, 

Against  the  unseen  coils— 

(More  filmy  than  the  spider's  woof, 

And  yet  more  fracture-proof 

Than  brazen  chain)— 

Tugged,  godlike,  yet  in  vain. 

"  They  sang  how  sinewy  was  the  strain 

Of  him  who  evermore  uprolled 

Th'  enchanted  stone  that  slipped  his  hold 

And  bounded  back  from  hill  to  plain 

To  be  upheaved  again  with  might  and  main, 


THOU  AND  I.  43 

"  Yea,  many  a  song  they  sang  beside, 
How  the  all-valiant  gods,  in  pride, 
With  one  another  vied  ; — 

"  How  naked  Vulcan,  clad  with  smoke, 

His  ringing  anvil  beat 

Until  his  hammer's  heat, 

With  just  its  spark-enkindling  stroke, 

Struck  fiercer  fire  at  every  blow 

Than  in  his  forge  could  ever  glow  ; 

How  Jove  in  wrath  the  Titans  hurled, 

Down  whizzing  to  the  lower  world  ; 

How  Ossa  was  on  Pelion  flung; 

How  Arthur's  sword  was  three  times  swung ; 

How  Charlemagne's  battle-brand, — 

Which  he  alone  could  hold,— 

Too  ponderous  for  another's  hand, — 

Flashed  lightnings  through  the  land; 

How  Lion  Heart  in  fury  fought 

With  Saladin  the  bold  ;— 


44  THOU  AND  I. 

11  The  minstrels  sang,  and  sang  again, 

Of  mighty  gods,  of  mighty  men, 

Of  giants  in  the  days  of  old, 

Of  heroes  of  immortal  mould, 

Till  all  the  earth  with  echoes  rang, — 

So  well  they  sang ! 

"But  all  this  marvellous  might  was  nought, 
In  act  or  thought, 

Compared  with  Love,  when  comes  the  hour 
To  prove  its  more  than  mortal  power ! 

"  Though  all  the  Fates  should  Be  its  foes, 
And  smite  it  all  the  blows 
That  rained  on  Hector's  helmet, 
They  could  not  overwhelm  it ! 

"  O  Earth  !     O  Heaven  !     Belaid  ! 
Of  all  the  powers  that  are,  or  seem, 

• 

In  fact  or  dream, 
Love  is  supreme ! 


THOU  AND  I.  45 

"  No  mortal  breath, 

No  lip  that  uttereth  speech  or  song, 

No  word  that  any  poet  saith, 

No  urn  or  marble  after  death, 

No  art,  however  long, 

No  tongue  of  time  hath  ever  told 

The  might  of  love,  how  manifold, — 

The  strength  of  love,  how  strong ! 

"  Love,  strong  as  Samson  at  the  gates, — 
Love,  stronger  than  the  Triple  Fates, — 
Love,  strongest  of   the   strong, — in   patience 

waits, 

Like  Atlas,  long, — until  at  length, 
With  mighty  load,  yet  mightier  strength, 
It  heaves  the  dusty  world  on  high 
And  holds  it  in  the  breezy  sky 
For  Heaven's  own  winds  to  purify ! 

"  Love,  fiercer  far 

Than  blazing  flame  of  sun  or  star, 


46  THOU  AND  I. 

* 
Is  that  immortal  fire, 

The  soul's  supreme  desire, 

Th'  eternal  heat 

That  gives  the  heart  its  perfect  beat, 

And  maketh  life  complete. 

"  So  thou  and  I,  my  sweet,"" 
Sit  at  love's  feet ! " 

—The  matron  listened,  glowed,  and  smiled ; 
Then  caught  and  kissed  each  romping  child. 


THOU  AND  I. 


IV. 

"  THOU  and  I ! " 

The  old  man  said, — fourscore, 

Snow-crowned,  and  form  erect  no  more. 

"  Let  us  to  Him  whom  we  adore 

Give  thanks  and  praise, 

For  He  who  lengtheneth  out  our  days 

Hath  given  us  twain  our  mortal  measure 

Of  all  the  needful  toil  and  strife — 

Of  all  the  needful  peace  and  pleasure — 

Which  they  who  live  call  life. 

"  Our  stalwart  sons  are  scattered  far, — 
All  following  fortune's  flying  star, 
That  leads  the  brave  where  honors  are. 


48  THOU  AND  I. 

"  Our  gentler  birds  have  softlier  flown, 
Each  with  her  mate  through  tranquil  skies, 
Each  to  her  nest  in  quiet  shades, 
Till  now,  of  all  those  mated  maids, 
Each  daughter  is  a  matron  grown, 
Each  mothering  daughters  of  her  own. 

"  The  heart  alone 
Is  woman's  throne, — 
A  shaken  throne  of  hopes  and  fears, 
Yet,  as  among  the  twinkling  spheres 
The  star,  most  fixt,  most  trembles, — lo ! 
A  woman's  heart  is  even  so  : 
The  more  it  quivers  in  her  breast, 
The  deeper  its  foundations  rest ! 

"  What  honors  shall  a  woman  prize  ? 
In  love,  her  queenly  glory  lies, — 
Till  in  her  children's  princely  eyes, 


THOU  AND  I.  49 

And  in  their  father's  kingly  worth, 
She  sums  the  Empire  of  the  Earth. 

"  But  now,  to  thee  and  me, 
What  more  of  honor  can  there  be  ? 
What  laurel-wreath,  what  garland  grand 
Was  ever  snatched  by  palsied  hand  ? 

"  For  us,  the  almond-tree 

Doth  flourish  now : 

Its  whitest  bloom  is  on  our  brow. 

Let  others  triumph  as  they  may, 

And  wear  their  garlands  gay 

Of  olive,  oak,  or  bay : 

Our  crown  of  glory  is,  instead, 

The  hoary  head. 

11  Our  threescore  years  and  ten, 
That  measure  life  to  mortal  men, 
Have  lingered  to  a  longer  length 
By  reason  of  our  strength  ; 


THOU  AND  I. 

Yet,  like  a  tale  that  hath  been  told, 
They  all  have  passed,  and  now,  behold ! 
We  verily  are  old  ; — 

"  Yea,  old  like  Abraham,  when  he  went, 

With  head  down  bent, 

And  mantle  rent, 

In  dole  for  her  who  lay  in  death, 

And  to  the  Sons  of  Heth 

The  silver  shekels  gave 

For  Mamre's  gloomy  cave, 

To  be  her  grave  ;— 

"  Or,  older  still,  like  him 

Who,  feeble  not  of  limb, 

With  eyes  not  dim,  - 

Upclimbed,  with  staff  in  hand, 

To  where  Mount  Nebo  cleft  the  sky, 

And  looked  and  saw  the  Promised  Land 

(Forbidden  him  from  on  high) 


THOU  AND  I.  51 


Till,  with  an  unrecorded  cry, 
He  laid  him  down  to  die. 

"  So  too,  for  us,  the  end  is  nigh. 
Our  mortal  race  is  nearly  run ; 
Our  earthly  toil  is  nearly  done ! 
Ah,  thou  and  I, 

Who  in  the  grave  so  soon  shall  lie, 
Have  little  time  to  see  the  sun- 
So  little  it  is  nearly  none  ! 

•k 

"  What  then  ? 

Amen ! 

All  hail,  my  love,  good  cheer ! 

Keep  back  thy  unshed  tear  ! 

Not  thou  nor  I 

Shall  mourn  or  sigh. 

Nay  now,  we  twain — 

Old  man,  old  wife — 

The  few  days  that  remain— 


52  THOU  AND  I. 

Let  us  make  merry — let  us  laugh  ! — 
For  now  at  length  we  quaff 
The  last,  best  wine  of  life, — 
The  very  last — the  very  best, 
The  double  cup  of  love  and  rest ! 

"  What  though  the  groaning  world  declare 
That  life  is  but  a  load  of  care  ? — 
A  burden  wearisome  to  bear? — 
That  as  we  journey  down  the  years 
The  path  is  through  a  vale  of  tears  ? — 
Yet  we  who  have  the  burden  borne, 
And  traveled  until  travel-worn, 
Forget  the  weight  upon  the  back, 
Forget  the  long  and  weary  track, 
And  sit  remembering  here  to-day 
How  we  were  children  at  our  play  ; — 

"  And,  half  in  doze,  at  idle  ease, 
Before  the  hearth-fire's  dying  brands, 


THOU  AND  L  53 

With  elbows  on  our  trembling  knees, 
With  chin  between  our  wrinkled  hands, 
We  sail  unnavigable  seas, — 
We  roam  impenetrable  lands,— 
We  leap  from  clime  to  clime, — 
We  conquer  space  and  time  ; — 

"  For,  every  glowing  ember 

Enkindles  fancy  to  remember, — 

Till  all  the  once-forgotten  past, 

Long  gone,  comes  back  to  us  at  last ; — 

As  if  the  sea  should  render  up, 

From  out  its  treasure-hiding  caves, 

The  King  of  Thule's  golden  cup ; 

Or  the  green  Adriatic's  waves 

Back  to  the  wondering  Doge  should  fling 

Venetia's  bridal-ring ; 

Or  Ghizeh's  time-defying  graves 

Should  burst  their  marble  lids  asunder, 

And,  to  the  Bedouin's  wonder, 


54  THOU  AND  7. 

Reveal  th'  Egyptian  jewels,  hid 
By  that  sphinx-guarded  pyramid 
Which  they  are  buried  under  ! 

"  And,  howsoever  strange  it  seems, 

The  dearest  of  our  drowsy  dreams 

Is  of  that  billow-beaten  shore 

Where,  in  our  childish  days  of  yore, 

We  piled  the  salty  sands 

Into  a  palace  that  still  stands  ! — 

Not  where  it  first  arose, 

Not  where  the  wild  wind  blows, 

Not  by  the  ocean's  roar, — 

(For,  long  ago,  those  turrets  fell 

Beneath  that  billowy  swell),— 

But,  down  within  the  heart's  deep  core, 

Our  tumbled  tower  we  oft  restore 

And  ever  build  it  o'er  and  o'er! 

"  We  have  one  palace  more, — 
Not  made  with  hands, — 


THOU  AND  I.  55 

Nor  have  our  feet  yet  entered  at  its  door ! 
It  lieth  not  behind  us,  but  before! 

"  Dear  love,  our  pilgrimage  is  thither  tending, 
And  there  shall  have  its  ending ! 

"  At  first,  we  sought,  like  all  mankind, 
The  land  that  all  have  failed  to  find,— 
Arcadia,  by  the  poets  sung,— 
That  pleasant  phantom  of  the  mind 
That  lured  our  feet  when  we  were  young ; 

"  At  last,  with  souls  no  longer  haunted 

By  that  vain  vision,  soon  forgot, 

We  seek, — not  that  Utopia  fair 

That  vanished  into  viewless  air, — 

Not  that  all-rosy  realm  which,  like  the  flowery 

spot 

Where  Eden's  garden  once  was  planted, 
No  longer  is  enchanted, 


5 6  THOU  AND  I. 

And  bloometh  not ; — 

We  seek, — with  unmisguided  feet, 

And  hearts  undaunted, — 

Not  hope's  mirage,  not  fancy's  cheat, 

Not  faith's  fair  fabulous  pretence, 

Not  any  phantom  to  beguile 

The  spirit  for  a  while, 

Then  disappoint  the  sense  ; — 

We  seek, — not  on  the  mocking  earth,  not  here, 

(Yet,  haply,  not  far  hence)— 

The  Heavenly  City,  crystal  clear  !— 

Which,  lustrous  with  a  light  intense, 

Was  seen  from  Patmos  by  the  Seer 

Whose  century-old  and  dazzled  eyes 

Beheld  it  shining  in  the  skies ! — 

"  No  vision,  for  a  moment  bright, 

Then  taking  flight ! 

But  its  huge  bulk  was  measured  to  his  sight, 

As  he  hath  told, 


THOU  AND  1.  57 

By  an  archangel's  reed  of  gold ; 

Length,  breadth,  and  height, 

Each  equaling  each, 

Whichever  way  the  reed  could  reach, — 

Each    several     side     twelve     thousand     furlongs 

square, — 

All  glittering  in  the  upper  air! — 
So  lustrous  long,  so  flashing  high, 
So  blazing  broad,  no  mortal  eye 
Hath  space  within  its  ball 
To  compass  all 
The  golden  girth 
Of  that  translucent  wall, 
Outmeasuring  every  mountain  on  the  earth  ! 

"  For  neither  Himmalaya's  crest, 

Where  the  tired  eagle  stops  to  rest ; 

Nor  Hecla's  burning  pile, 

Whose  smoke  rolls  up  for  many  a  lofty  mile  ; 

Nor  Tenerif  s  cloud-confronting  isle  ; 


58  THOU  AND  I. 

Nor  the  five  Cities  of  the  Plain ; 

Nor  that  engulphing  main 

Wherein  their  shaken  towers,  in  falling, 

Sank  in  th'   asphaltic  flood,  appalling ; — 

Not  all  these  mountains,  cities,  seas, — 

Though  heaped  in  one, — nor  seven  times  these  !- 

Could  measure  forth  the  space 

Of  God's  great  dwelling-place ; — 

That  City  of  Delight, 

Fixt  in  Heaven's  highest  height — 

Unsunned,  unmooned, 

Yet  needing  not  the  ray 

Of  any  orb  that  gilds  the  day, 

Or  beautifies  the  night ; 

Untempled,  yet  attuned 

To  praise  divine, 

For  they  who  worship  there  need  not  a  shrine, 

Since  they  behold  His  face. 

"  To  thee,  O  love,  will  I  repeat 


THOU  AND  I.  59 

The  sacred  story 

That  tells  that  City's  glory  !— 

"  For  there,  through  many  a  golden  street, 

Th'  Immortal  River  floweth, 

Upon  whose  banks  there  groweth— 

On  either  side — 

The  Tree  of  Life,  whose  branches  midway  meet 

To  overarch  the  amber  tide, 

That  pictures  all  their  pendent  fruits 

Deep  in  the  glassy  flood  that  glides  along  their 

roots ; 

And  ever  as  the  waveless  stream  goes  wending 
Its  tranquil  way, 

It  watereth  plants  that  need  no  other  tending, 
Self-tended  they ; — 
And,  chief,  that  amaranthine  flower,  transplanted 

first 

From  Heaven  to  Eden's  garden, 
To  bloom  awhile  ere  man  was  yet  accurst, 


60  .  THOU  AND  I. 

But  then,  on  his  offending, 
And  while  his  punishment  was  pending, 
.In  heavenly  token  of  his  pardon, 
Plucked  back  again,  above  earth's  death  and  doom, 
To  where,  beyond  the  tomb, 
It  purples  with  a  fadeless  bloom 
A  spring  unending, — 

To  crown  victorious  souls,  on  their  ascending, 
With  that   immortal  wreath   for  which  they  died 
contending. 

"  And  each  of  all  the  twelve  great  portals 

Is  one  great  pearl,— 

Gold-banded,  like  a  ring  of  fair  device  ; 

With  adamantine  hinges,  ever-during; 

Each  pearl  with  lustre  so  alluring 

That  though  beyond  the  gaze  of  mortals, — 

Above  the  earth's  wild  whirl, — 

Yet  from  afar  it  sweetly  doth  entice 

The  souls  of  men  to  wish  them  in  that  Paradise ; 


THOU  AND  I.  6 1 

Each  pearl  of  greater  price 

Than  in  the  parable  is  told 

Of  him  who  all  his  treasures  sold", 

His  silver  and  his  gold, 

And  went  and  bought  with  these 

That  jewel  of  the  seas,— 

That  gem,  all  precious,  pure,  and  rare, 

With  which  none  others  could  compare — 

Except  the  pearls  those  portals  hold, 

Ten  thousand  times  more  fair ! 

"  And  at  each  portal  an  archangel  waits 
To  keep  wide  open  those  eternal  gates ; 
For  he  who  saw  was  bid  to  say, 
1  The  gates  shall  not  be  shut  by  day, 
And  there  is  no  night  there.' 

"  And  each  foundation  glittereth  fair 

With   heavenly  stones,  half-dimmed  with  earthly 

names, 
As  if  to  veil  from  mortal  eyes  their  flames, 


62  THOU  AND  I. 

Lest  their  unshaded  brightness  should  excel 

All  power  of  tongue  to  tell, — 

Or  lest,  with  eyes  transpierced  with  pain, 

The  Holy  Seer  had  fallen  blind, — 

Whereby,  beheld  too  plain, 

The  vision,  unrecorded  to  mankind, 

Had  come  and  passed  in  vain. 

"  And  those  illustrious  stones — the  mystic  twelve- 
Each  for  a  tribe  of  Israel's  line — 
More  fiercely  shine 
Than  any  for  which  mortals  delve 
In  any  earthly  mine  ! — 

"  For  not  Golconda  nor  Brazil, 
In  cavern  dark,  or  deep-dug  hill, 
Illumes  the  slave's  dim-lighted  glance 
With  that  fair  spark  which  happy  chance 
Unblinds  his  searching  eyes  to  see, 
And,  for  his  finding,  sets  him  free ; — 


THOU  AND  I.  63 

Not  this  soul-ransoming  gem, 

Nor  Caesar's  glittering  diadem 

Hath  power  to  burn,  and  blaze, 

And  charm  th'  enchanted  gaze 

Like  those  fair  jewels  in  the  rays 

Of  that  immortal  light 

Of  which  the  mortal  eye  bears  not  the  sight, 

But  whose  white  glory  the  Archangels  praise. 

"  O  love,  now  lend  thine  ear  and  listen 
While,  like  the  Patmian,  I  declare 
How  those  twelve  jewels  glisten, 
And  what  the  names  they  bear. 

"  The  first,  a  jasper,— which  in  Ispahan, 
When  brought  by  camel  of  the  caravan, 
Is  called  a  diamond  in  the  speech  of  man  ; 
The  next,  a  sapphire,— whose  celestial  blue 
Gives  the  Tyrrhenian  waves  their  hue ; 


THOU  AND  I. 

The  third,  that  Chalcedonian  stone 

Which  men  no  longer  find, 

Yet  once  on  earth  was  known 

In  that  old  City  of  the  Blind 

Which  dust  of  deserts  since  hath  overblown ; 

The  fourth,  an  emerald,— glittering  green 

As  when,  upon  an  olive's  rind, 

A  drop  of  dew  is  seen ; 

The  fifth,  a  sard,— that  stone  of  flesh 

That  ever  bleeds  afresh, 

And  stands  for  Calvary's  blood-red  sign ; 

The  sixth,  a  ruby,— set  to  shine 

Like  th'  ensanguined  wine 

That  filled  the  Holy  Grail ; 

The  seventh,  a  chrysolite,— 

So  golden  bright 

It  makes  Aurora  dim  and  pale ; 

The  eighth,  a  beryl,— sparkling  white, 

Like  moonlit  frost, 


THOU  AND  I.  65 

As  seen  by  hunters  who,  at  night, 

Mount  Caucasus  have  crossed  ; 

The  ninth,  a  topaz, — hazel-eyed 

Like  Lilith,  Adam's  earlier  bride 

Whom  first  he  loved  and  lost 

Ere  Eve  was  moulded  from  his  side ; 

The  tenth,  a  chrysoprase, — 

Flashing,  with  yellow  rays, 

Up,  down,  a  thousand  ways, 

Through  all  that  region  wide ; 

Th'  eleventh,  a  jacinth, — fairer  than  if  dyed 

By  sun  and  wind 

With  colors  of  that  blossom,  lush  and  pied, 

With  which  its  name  is  twinned ; 

The  last,  an  amethyst, — whose  font  of  fire 

Casts  forth  a  purple  jet 

More  orient  than  the  East,— 

As  if  the  day  should  rise  but  not  to  set, 

And  the  red  dawn,  with  all  its  gay  adorning, 

Should  linger  on  in  one  immortal  morning! 


66  THOU  AND  I. 

11  O  fair  that  City  is  to  see 

That  lureth  thee  and  me ! 

It  is  arrayed  in  bride's  attire ! 

It  celebrates  the  marriage-feast ! 

It  satisfies  the  soul's  desire ! 

With  strength  declined,  yet  faith  increased, 

We  thitherward  aspire ! 

"  As  he  whose  way,  through  briers  and  weeds, 

To  royal  Shiraz  leads 

(Where  the  rose-gardens  are), 

May  guess  his  nearness,  from  afar, 

As  soon  as  he  espies 

With  gladdened  eyes 

That  towering,  that  enchanted  tree 

Which,  never  by  a  zephyr  stirred, 

Nor  rustled  by  a  fluttering  bird, 

Yet,  by  its  own  sweet  action  free, 

Waves  in  that  breathless  air  of  balm, 

And,  in  a  perfect  calm,  * 


THOU  AND  I.  67 

Bends  its  high  top  in  courtesy, 
And,  with  a  gracious  nod, 
Salutes  each  passing  pilgrim-band 
To  bid  them  welcome  to  the  land  ; — 
So,  in  the  Paradise  of  God, 
The  Tree  of  Life,  with  greener  plume, 
Unearthly  in  its  bloom, 
Already  waves  its  signal-bough, 
And,  like  a  beckoning  hand, 
Which  we,  beholding,  understand, 
Invites  us  thither  now  ! 


"  To  which  celestial  welcome,  what  reply 
Make  thou  and  I? 


"  Ah,  though  the  rapturous  vision 
Allures  us  to  a  Land  Elysian, 
Yet  aged  are  our  feet,  and  slow, 
And  not  in  haste  to  go. 


68  THOU  AND  I. 

"  Life  still  hath  many  joys  to  give, 
Whereof  the  sweetest  is — to  live. 

"  Then  fear  we  death  ?     Not  so  ! 
Or  do  we  tremble  ?     No  ! 
Nor  do  we  even  grieve  ! 
And  yet  a  gentle  sigh  we  heave, 
And  unto  Him  who  fixes  fate, — 
Without  whose  sovereign  leave, 
Down-whispered  from  on  high, 
Not  even  the  daisy  dares  to  die, — 
We,  jointly,  thou  and  I, 
Implore  a  little  longer  date, — 
A  little  term  of  kind  reprieve, — 
A  little  lease  till  by  and  by ! 

"  May  it  be  Heaven's  decree, — 
Here,  now,  to  thee  and  me, — 
That,  for  a  season  still, 
The  eye  shall  not  grow  dim  ; 


THOU  AND  /. 

That,  for  a  few  more  days, 

The  ear  cease  not  to  hear  the  hymn 

Which  the  tongue  utters  to  His  praise; 

That,  for  a  little  while, 

The  heart  faint  not,  nor  fail ; 

For  even  the  wintry  sun  is  bright, 

And  cheering  to  our  aged  sight ; 

Yea,  though  the  frosts  prevail, 

Yet  even  the  icy  air, 

The  frozen  plain,  the  leafless  wood 

Still  keep  the  earth  as  fresh  and  fair 

As  when  from  Heaven  He  called  it  good ! 


"  O  final  Summoner  of  the  soul ! 

Grant,  of  thy  pitying  grace, 

That,  for  a  little  longer  space, 

The  pitcher  at  the  fountain's  rim 

Be  shattered  not,  but  still  kept  whole, — 

Still  overflowing  at  the  brim  ! 


70  THOU  AND  I. 

If  but  a  year,  if  but  a  day, 

Thy  lifted  hand,  O  stay ! 

Loose  Thou  not  yet,  O  Lord, 

The  silver  cord! 

Break  Thou  not  yet  the  golden  bowl ! " 

— Thus,  garrulous,  the  aged  pair 

Sat  in  their  chimney-nook, 

With  hearts  half  glad  and  half  afraid ; 

And  while  the  firelight  flickered  there, 

They  talked  and  laughed — they  wept  and  prayed ; 

Until,  with  weary,  wistful  look, 

They  saw  the  embers  fade, — 

And,  darkly  through  the  wintry  air, 

Came  nightfall  and  the  shade! 


THOU  AAD  1. 


V. 

"THOU  and  I!" 

The  voice  no  longer  said  ; 

But  two  white  stones,  instead, 

Above  the  twain,  long  dead, 

Still  utter,  each  to  each, 

The  same  familiar  speech, 

"  Thou  and  I !  "— 

Not  spoken  to  the  passer-by, 

But  just  as  if,  beneath  the  grass, 

Deep  underfoot  of  all  who  pass, 

The  sleeping  dust  should  wake  to  say, 

Each  to  its  fellow-clay, 

Each  in  the  same  old  way, 

"Thou  and  I!" 


72  THOU  AND  I. 

And  each  to  either  should  reply, — 

(Tomb  murmuring  unto  tomb, 

Stone  answering  unto  stone, 

Yet  not  with  sound  of  human  moan, 

Nor  breath  of  mortal  sigh, 

But  voiceless  as  the  dead's  dumb  cry,) — • 

"Thou  and  I!" 


And  whosoever  draweth  nigh, — 

With  reverent  feet  and  holy  fear, — 

And  tarrieth  for  a  space, 

The  letters  on  the  stones  to  trace, 

Or  drop  a  tender  tear, 

Shall  (if  he  have  an  ear  to  hear, 

And  know  the  language  of  the  place,) 

Hear  other  whisperings  to  and  fro, 

i 
Half-muffled  in  the  dust  below; 

Not  said  in  words,  nor  sounded  clear, 
But,  though  all  mystic  to  the  ear, 


THOU  AND  I.  73 

Yet  to  the  heart  all  plain  ;— 

A  silent  speech  by  sign  and  token, 

More  sweet  than  any  language  spoken  ; — 

At  first,  the  old  refrain, 

"  Thou  and  I  !  " 

Then,  by  and  by, 

This  faintly  added  strain  : — 


"  We  twain, 

As  here  we  rest  within  the  gloom, 

Are  sundered  not,  but  still  remain 

Twain  one, 

As  when  we  walked  beneath  the  sun ! 

Love,  lying  in  the  grave — its  bed  — 

Is  not  unwed, 

But  newly-nuptialed — groom  and  bride 

Forever  side  by  side — 

As  if  the  faithful  dead 

Had  never  died ! 
4 


74  THOU  AND  I. 

"  The  spirit  and  the  body  part, 
Yet  love  abideth,  heart  to  heart. 


"  O  silent  comrade  of  my  rest, 

With  hands  here  crossed  upon  thy  breast, 

I  know  thee  who  thou  art ! 

0  marble  brow, 

Here  pillowed  next  to  mine, 

1  know  the  soul  divine 
That  tenanted  thy  shrine ! 


"  For,  though  above  us,  green  and  high, 

The  yew-trees  grow, 

And  churchyard  ravens  fly, 

And  mourners  come  and  go, 

Yet  thou  and  I, 

Who  dust  to  dust  lie  here  below, 

Still  one  another  know  ! 


THOU  AND  I.  75 

"  Yea,  thee  I  know — it  still  is  thou  ; 

And  me  thou  know'st — it  still  is  I  ; 

True  lovers  once,  true  lovers  now ! — 

The  same  old  vow, 

The  same  old  thrill, 

The  same  old  love  between  us  still ! 

"  The  gloomy  grave  hath  frosts  that  kill, 
But  love  is  chilled  not  with  their  chill. 

"  Love's  flame  — 

Consuming,  unconsumed  — 

In  breasts  that  breathe — in  hearts  entombed — 

Is  fed  by  life  and  death  the  same ! 

"  Love's  spark 

Is  brightest  when  love's  house  is  dark  ! 

"  Love's  shroud  — 

That  wraps  its  bosom  round  — 

Must  crumble  in  the  charncl-ground, 


76  THOU  AND  I. 

Till  all  the  long  white  winding-sheet 

Shall  drop  to  dust  from  head  to  feet ; 

But  love's  strong  cord, 

TV  eternal  tie, 

Th'  immortal  bond  that  binds 

Love's  twain  immortal  minds ; — 

This  silken  knot 

Shall  never  rot — 

Nor  moulder  in  the  mouldy  mound — 

Nor  mildew — nor  decay — 

Nor  fall  apart — nor  drop  away — 

Nor  ever  be  unbound  ! 

"  Love's  dust, 

Whatever  grave  it  fill, 

Though  buried  deep,  is  deathless  still 

Love  hath  no  death,  and  cannot  die ! 

This  love  is  ours,  as  here  we  lie, — 

Thou  and  I ! " 


THE    CHANT    CELESTIAL. 


THE  CHANT  CELESTIAL. 


"  Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on." 

Keats 's  "  ODE  TO  A  GRECIAN  URN.' 


I. 
KING  ARTHUR,  in  his  palace  of  Pendragon, 

Sat  feasting  with  his  princes,  late  and  long, 
And  to  his  oldest  minstrel  sent  a  flagon 

To  fire  his  aged  fancy  to  a  song. 

II. 
Uprose  the  hoary  harper,  blind  and  saintly, 

Whose     ninety-wintered    beard    besnowed    his 

breast, 
Who,  harping  with  his  palsied  fingers  faintly, 

Thus  sang,  though  softly,  at  the  king's  behest : 

79 


80  THE  CHANT  CELESTIAL. 

III. 

"  Give  ear,  whoever  sorrows  or  rejoices, 
While  I,  too  old  for  either  mirth  or  tears, 

Shall  rhyme  of  those  celestial  harps  and  voices 
That  chant  the  fabled  music  of  the  spheres. 


IV. 

"  I  sing  of  worlds  before  the  earth  was  present,- 
A  song  of  times  ere  time  itself  began, — 

Before  the  silver}'-  moon  had  lit  her  crescent, 
Or  sun  his  fire,  or  lived  a  mortal  man. 


v. 

"  The  primal  universe  had  chaos  in  it, 

For  night  with  triple  darkness  wrapped  it  round, 
Nor  was  there  greening  leaf,  nor  singing  linnet, 

Nor  any  other  cheering  sight,  nor  sound. 


THE  CHANT  CELESTIAL.  8 1 

VI. 

"  Then,  while  the  mighty  mists  were  still  concealing 
The  sphereless  world  (not  yet  an  asteroid), 

God  ordered  heavenly  music  to  go  pealing 
Through  all  the  silence  of  the  earthly  void. 


VII. 

"  Within  a  shining  cloud,  that  veiled  their  faces, 
Ten  thousand  seraphs,  each  with  harp  in  hand, 

Flew  chanting  through  the  still  and  empty  spaces 
That  afterward  were  filled  with  sea  and  land. 


VIII. 


"  The  stars,  that  on  the  morning  of  creation 
Together  sang  to  Him  who  made  them  fair, 

First  caught  their  canticle  of  adoration 
From  this  immortal  murmur  in  the  air. 


4* 


82  THE   CHANT  CELESTIAL. 

IX. 

"  Before  the  mountains  had  their  high  upheaval, 
Before  the  caverns  of  the  deep  were  laid, 

This  was  creation's  harmony  primeval, — 

The  rhythm  to  which  the  whirling  world  was 
made. 

x. 

"  Sweet  herald  of  the  will  of  the  Creator, 
It  timed  the  birth  of  Nature,  then  unborn, 

And,  warbling  through  the  zodiac  and  equator, 
Awoke  the  seasons  and  led  forth  the  morn. 


XI. 

"  From  pole  to  pole,  from  Capricorn  to  Cancer, 
Things  lifeless  into  life  it  did  beguile, 

Till  marble  Memnon  heard  it  and  made  answer, 
And  stony  Sphinx  retold  it  to  the  Nile. 


THE   CHANT  CELESTIAL.  83 

XII. 

"  Swift  in  its  flight,  this  cloud  of  glory  glistened 
With  lustre  fairer  than  the  sun  or  moon ; 

And  to  its  anthem,  hill  and  valley  listened 
Till  earth,  enchanted,  echoed  back  the  tune. 


XIII. 

"  The  rustling  boughs  of  Lebanon,  gigantic, 
Rehearsed  it  to  the  tiniest  herbs  that  grew ; 

And   from  the  swelling  wave  of  the  Atlantic, 
It  quavered  to  the  trembling  drop  of  dew. 


XIV. 

"  Th'  Almighty,  who  decreed  this  Chant  Celestial, 

By  its  primordial  melody  designed 
To  chord  to  it  all  cadences  terrestrial, 

As  this  was  chorded  to  th'  Eternal  Mind. 


84  THE   CHANT  CELESTIAL. 

XV. 

"  Awhile,  through  all  the  world,  in  each  direction, 
No  earthly  sound  could  ever  sink  or  swell 

But  to  that  heavenly  rhythm, whose  lost  perfection 
Now  lingers  only  in  the  sea-side  shell. 


XVI. 

"  The  perfect  earth  kept  not  its  first  completeness, 
But  rolled  in  discord  to  the  heavenly  hymn, 

Yet  not  the  forfeiture  of  Eden's  sweetness 
Could  hush  the  anthem  of  the  cherubim. 


XVII. 

"  They  chant  it  in  a  flying  cloud  forever, 
Yet  not  a  cloud  of  earth,  that  caps  the  hills, 

Nor  yet  of  heaven — where  cloud  can  enter  never- 
But  midway  where  unfallen  dew  distils. 


THE   CHANT  CELESTIAL. 
XVIII. 

"  This  cloud  by  other  clouds  is  unattended, 
But  floats  in  golden  light  above  them  all, 

Yet  hides  from  mortal  eyes  its  glory  splendid, 
Though  oft  on  mortal  ears  its  echoes  fall. 


XIX. 

"  A  whirlwind  rose,  and  tore  its  flying  fleeces, 
And  cleft  its  fleeting  music  to  the  core, — 

Till  now  each  earthly  storm  that  roars  or  ceases 
Is  keyed  to  that  celestial  strain  of  yore. 


XX. 

"  A  soaring  lark,  that  heard  the  heavenly  singing, 
Brought  down  the  song  to  all  his  fellow-throats, — 

Till  every  greenwood  now  is  ever  ringing 
With  lowly  pipings  of  those  lofty  notes. 


86  THE  CHANT  CELESTIAL. 

XXI. 

"  Beneath  a  myrtle  sat  a  poet,  sighing, 

Because  he  could  not  tune  his  jangled  lyre, 

Who  heard  the  wondrous  chant  above  him  flying, 
And  chorded  to  it  each  rebellious  wire. 


XXII. 

"  Then,  having  caught  the  arch-angelic  measure, 
Henceforth,  at  wedding-feast  and  funeral-train, 

He  shed  a  heavenly  joy  on  earthly  pleasure, 
And  cast  a  heavenly  peace  on  earthly  pain. 


XXIII. 

"  When,  round  the  ark,  the  Deluge  rose,  appalling, 
From  this  melodious  cloud  a  lyre  was  hurled, 

Whose  seven  immortal  strings  took  fire  in  falling, 
And  gave  the  rainbow  to  a  stormy  world. 


THE   CHANT  CELESTIAL.  87 

XXIV. 

"So  lucent  was  the  cloud,  the  sky  adorning, 
That,  when  it  crossed  Olympus  on  its  way, 

It  lent  Aurora  light  to  flush  the  morning, 
And  gave  Apollo  gold  to  gild  the  day. 

XXV. 

"  It   flashed    the    sparkle    which   the    moon    saw 
glancing 

Upon  the  waters  of  Castalia's  fount, 
And  lent  the  Muses  music  for  their  dancing 

Until  they  vanished  from  their  vernal  mount. 

XXVI. 
"  It    gleamed    where   Arctic    islands    caught    its 

dazzle, — 

While  rumbling  icebergs  echoed  back  its  runes, 
Till  Odin  heard  them  on  the  tree  Ygdrasil, 

And    bees    re-hummed    them    to    the    summer 
noons. 


88  THE   CHANT  CELESTIAL. 

XXVII. 

"  From  India's  sacred  coast  of  Coromandel 
To  Mecca's  first  Kaaba  went  the  sound, 

Till  he  who  listened  laid  aside  his  sandal, 
And  flung  him  prostrate  on  the  holy  ground. 

XXVIII. 

"  It  blew  a  trumpet  over  Sinai's  mountain, 
That  woke  an  earthquake  by  its  awful  tone, 

Till  he  who  smote  the  rock  and  loosed  the  foun 
tain 
Received  the  tables  twain  of  graven  stone. 

XXIX. 

"  It  sounded  through  the  desert  its  hosanna 
Where,  first  beheld  of  men,  a  Pillar  vast, 

It  shone  before  the  tribes  that  gathered  manna, 
And  led  them  to  the  Promised  Land  at  last. 


THE  CHANT  CELESTIAL.  89 

XXX. 

"  Its  harps  were  echoed  by  the  harp  of  Zion, 
That  prophesied  of  nations  reconciled, 

And  of  the  peaceful  day  when  lamb  and  lion 
Shall  twain  be  yoked  together  by  a  child. 

XXXI. 

"  The   shepherds   heard    it,   who    by   night    were 

tending 

Their  sleepy  sheep  on  Bethlehem's  holy  hill, 
To  whose  low  summit  came  the  cloud  descending, 
With    all    its   angels,   chanting,    *  Peace — good 
will ! ' 

XXXII. 

"  This  was  the  cloud  beneath  whose  pealing  thun 
ders 

The  Temple  reeled,  the  tombs  flew  open  wide, 
And  all  the  day  grew  dark  with  signs  and  wonders 

When  Calvary's  Cross  upbore  the  Crucified !  " 


go  THE  CHANT  CELESTIAL. 

XXXIII. 

[Here  paused  the  bard ;  and,  at  the  Name  All  Holy, 
The  king  and  princes,  to  the  King  of  Kings, 

Each  crossed  his  breast,  and  bowed  in  reverence 

lowly, — 
The  bard  the  lowliest, — and  resumed  the  strings:] 

XXXIV. 

"  In  elder  time,  from  out  this  cloud  supernal, 
Those  guilty  seraphs  who  did  Heaven  assault 

Were  headlong  plunged  to  the  abyss  infernal, 
And  discord  vanished  out  of  Heaven's  blue  vault. 

XXXV. 

"  But  discord  on  the  earth  is  ever  raging, 
For  human  hate  is  quenchless  in  its  flame, 

Yet,  high  above  the  wars  that  men  are  waging, 
The  angels  still  go  singing,  all  the  same. 


THE   CHANT  CELESTIAL.  91 

XXXVI. 

"  Above  the  bedlam  world,  but  never  near  it, 
Their  floating  chant  is  caroled  through  the  sky, 

So  faint  and  far  that  mortals  hardly  hear  it, 
Yet  he  who  hearkens  hears  it  by  and  by. 


XXXVII. 

"  It  smites  the  ear  with  such  a  soft  vibration 
That  some  who  hear  it  think  it  not  a  sound, 

But  fancy  it  their  spirit's  own  pulsation, 

That  thrills  the  sense  with  ecstasy  profound. 


XXXVIII. 

44  It  chimes  to  deserts  and  dim  wildernesses, 

In  swift  pursuit  where  wandering  feet  have  trod  ; 

And  whom  it  overtakes,  it  sweetly  blesses, — 
And  fills  the  pilgrim  with  the  peace  of  God. 


92  THE   CHANT  CELESTIAL. 

XXXIX. 

"  It  chanteth  to  the  sailor  on  the  ocean, 
And  in  the  tempest  gives  his  soul  a  calm ; 

It  seeks  the  hermit,  rapt  in  his  devotion, 
And  thrills  and  trembles  in  his  prayer  and  psalm. 


XL. 

"  Beyond  all  melody  of  pipe  or  tabor 

When  merry  maidens  dance  with  happy  men, 

It  glads  the  groaning  captive  at  his  labor, 
And  cheers  the  exile,  hunted  to  his  den. 


XLI. 

"  To  all  who  weep  at  bedsides  of  the  dying, 
To  all  who  kiss  their  dead  and  lay  them  low, 

To  all  the  sorrowing  world,  with  all  its  sighing,- 
It  chants  a  solace  greater  than  the  woe. 


THE  CHANT  CELESTIAL.  93 

XLII. 

"  The  Heaven  of  heavens  where  God  hath  fixt  His 
dwelling, 

Where,  in  the  highest,  reigneth  the  Most  High, 
Hath  not,  in  all  its  heights,  a  hymn  excelling 

This  earth-encircling  chorus  in  the  sky. 

XLIII. 

"  From  Heaven  to  earth  its  cadences  shall  quiver, 
Till  earthly  lust  shall  yield  to  heavenly  law ; 

For  so  the  oracles  of  God  deliver, 
And  so,  of  old,  th'  anointed  seers  foresaw. 

XLIV. 

"  O  anthem  which  the  hymns  of  Heaven  resemble  ! 

O  harp  with  which  no  strings  on  earth  compare ! 
From  upper  skies,  that  with  thy  rapture  tremble, 

Float  down  to  ravish  now  our  lower  air ! 


94  THE  CHANT  CELESTIAL. 

XLV. 

"  O  cloud-wrapped  cloud,  hid  in  the  heights  Ely- 
sian, 

If  waking  eyes  may  not  behold  thy  gleams, 
Let  loose  thy  angels,  as  in  Jacob's  vision, 

To  steal  upon  our  sleeping  world  in  dreams  ! 

XLVI. 

"  Shine  once  again,  as  over  Eden's  garden ! 

Give  back  the  later  world  its  elder  light ! — 
Till  man  no  longer  hath  a  sin  to  pardon  ! — 

Till  earth  no  longer  hath  a  wrong  to  right ! 

XLVII. 

"  Be  chariot  thou  of  Him  of  hallowed  story ! — 
Of  Him  foretold  by  all  the  holy  seers ! — 

Of  Him  who  cometh  in  a  cloud  of  glory 
To  reign  upon  the  earth  a  thousand  years ! 


THE  CHANT  CELESTIAL.  95 

XLVIII. 

1  O  far-off  harbinger  of  His  appearing 

For  whom  men  cry,  '  How  long,  O  God,  how 

long !  '— 
I  see,  though  blind,  a  vision  of  thy  nearing  !— 

I  hail  thee,  harp  for  harp,  and  song  for  song !  " 

XLIX. 

— So  sang  the  minstrel  till  his  strength  was  ended  ; 

And  when   his  song  was   done,  he   gasped   for 

breath — 
Uprolled  his  eyes  to  heaven — his  palms  extended — 

And  sank,  through  holy  prayer,  to  happy  death. 


King  Arthur  bade  the  princes  of  his  table 
Uplift  and  lay  thereon  the  fallen  seer, 

And  on  his  bosom  spread  a  pall  of  sable, — 
Till,  black  amid  the  banquet,  was  a  bier. 


96  THE   CHANT  CELESTIAL. 

LI. 

Not  mortal,  like  the  bard, — his  song,  undying, 
Survives  the  singer  and  his  crumbled  lyre, — 

For,  round  the  listening  earth,  forever  flying, 
God's  holy  angels  chant  it  with  their  choir ! 


THE  GRAVE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 


THE   GRAVE   ON   THE   PRAIRIE. 

I. 
I  GALLOPED  once  with  horse  and  hound, 

Across  the  Texan  prairie, 
Till,  on  a  gentle  swell  of  ground, 
I  halted  by  a  flowery  mound 

That  bore  the  name  of  Mary. 

II. 
It  was  not  where  the  living  dwelt, 

Nor  was  it  yet  God's  Acre, 
But  all  a  lonely,  boundless  belt, 
Where  she  whose  name  the  letters  spelt 

Dwelt  only  with  her  Maker. 

99 


ICQ  THE  GRAVE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

III. 
No  crumbling  wall,  nor  rotting  rail, 

Nor  palisade  of  osier 
Remained  to  show,  however  frail, 
It  once  had  girt  the  sacred  pale, 

Or  guarded  the  enclosure. 

IV. 

No  date  was  carved  of  death  or  birth, 

No  line  of  love  or  honor, 
No  tribute  to  departed  worth, — 
Yet  she  who  mouldered,  earth  to  earth, 

Had  all  earth's  pomp  upon  her : 

v. 

For  prairie-flowers,  through  many  a  mile, 

In  every  gay  direction, 
Were  stirred  of  breezes  all  the  while, 
And  caught  the  sun,  and  flashed  his  smile, 

And  twinkled  in  reflection. 


THE  GRAVE   ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

VI. 

The  fiery  orb  was  zenith  high, 

And  yet  the  spot  was  shaded, 
Because  a  live-oak  grew  hard  by, 
And  arched  it  from  the  burning  sky, 

And  kept  the  flowers  unfaded. 

VII. 

And  long,  gray  moss,  with  mournful  grace, 

Each  lofty  limb  festooning, 
Hung  drooping  round  the  pensive  place, — 
Where,  tarrying  from  the  morning  chase, 

I  took  an  hour  of  nooning. 

VIII. 
The  hounds,  all  panting  from  their  quest, 

I  leashed  with  easy  fetter, 
And  sat  me  by  the  dead  to  rest, — 
For  not  so  good  is  life,  at  best, 

But  that  the  grave  is  better. 


102  THE  GRAVE   ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

IX. 

Then,  while  the  bison  joined  his  herd, 

In  peace  from  my  pursuing, 
I  watched  the  mosses  as  they  stirred, 
And  listened  to  the  whispered  word 

Of  what  the  winds  were  doing. 

x. 

The  frightened  plover  whirred  his  wing ; 

The  startled  rabbit  bounded  ; 
And  not  a  bird  made  bold  to  sing ; 
Nor  in  the  grass  a  creeping  thing 
His  chirping  trumpet  sounded. 

* 
XI. 

The  cactus  flaunted,  far  and  near, 

His  blossom  red  and  splendid, 
Which  nibbling  sheep  approached  with  fear, 
Half  daunted  by  the  spiny  spear 

With  which  it  was  defended. 


THE  GRAVE   ON  THE  PRAIRIE.  103 

XII. 

No  wanderer  ever  went  that  way 

Except  some  cattle-ranger, 
Or  Indian  of  a  former  day, 
Or  settler  discontent  to  stay, 

Or  (like  myself)  some  stranger. 

XIII. 
Yet  there,  at  rest,  lay  one  who  came, 

Too  weary  for  returning, — 
Who  bore,  in  death,  that  deathless  name, 
To  which  the  Church's  altar-flame 

Is  round  the  world  kept  burning. 

XIV. 

Who  was  the  dead  whose  name  alone 
Thus  stopped  me  as  I  wandered  ? — 
Whose  life,  unstoried  on  the  stone, 
Whose  fortune,  all  untold,  unknown, 
I  vaguely  guessed  and  pondered. 


104   '       THE  GRAVE   ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

XV. 

The  fate  with  which  I  grew  beguiled 

Eluded  my  endeavor ; 
For  was  she  babe  ? — or  romping  child  ? — 
Or  madcap  maiden,  free  and  wild, 

Now  fallen  asleep  forever? 

XVI. 
Or  was  she  one  of  wedded  twain, 

Beloved  and  yet  forsaken  ? — 
Whom,  lonely  in  the  flowery-plain, 
The  westward  toiling  wagon-train 

Had  left,  since  God  had  taken ! 

XVII. 
Or  was  it  age  that  bade  her  bow, 

Till, — old,  and  faint,  and  failing, — 
She  died  a  dame  of  wrinkled  brow, 
For  whom  th*  unfurrowed  prairie  now 

Her  furrowed  face  was  veiling? 
5* 


THE  GRAVE   ON  THE  PRAIRIE.  105 

XVIII. 
I  only  know  that,  short  or  long, 

Her  life  was  with  the  humble, 
Yet  I  enroll  it  with  the  throng 
Of  all  who  proudly  live  in  song 

When  brass  and  marble  crumble. 

XIX. 

O  Mary,  like  thy  vernal  clime, 
Whose  year  is  un-Decembered, — 

Forever  blooming  in  its  prime, — 

So,  never-withering  be  the  rhyme 
That  keeps  thy  name  remembered  ! 

XX. 

—And  what  of  him  who,  with  his  spade, 

Cleft  open  turf  and  gravel, 
And  dug  the  grave  where  she  was  laid, — 
And  heaped  the  hill,  and  knelt  and  prayed, — 

And  joined  his  train  of  travel? 


106  THE  GRAVE   ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

XXI. 
Carved  rudely  on  the  slab  of  slate, 

The  letters  looked  ungainly, — 
Yet  though  the  carver  could  not  wait 
To  linger  over  day  and  date, 

He  told  his  anguish  plainly. 

XXII. 
O  sorrow,  keener  than  the  knife 

That  sculptured  there  its  story  !— 
O  woe  that  wept  for  child  or  wife ! — 
O  mortal  pain  ! — like  human  life, 

Ye  too  are  transitory ! 

XXIII. 
For  God,  in  mercy  to  mankind, 

Endows  the  heart  with  feeling, 
Yet  lodges  reason  in  the  mind, 
That  man  may  have  the  wit  to  find 

For  every  hurt  a  healing. 


THE  GRAVE   ON  THE  PRAIRIE.  107 

XXIV. 

The  lightnings  on  the  ocean  play, 
And  shoot  their  bolts  of  thunder, 

And  fleets  are  wrecked  (the  tidings  say) — 

Yet  still  the  world  goes  on  its  way 
As  if  no  ship  went  under. 

XXV. 

The  chieftain  falls, — and  all  his  clan, 

Whom  he  had  died  defending, 
Forget  him  for  some  lordlier  man, — 
Whose  glory,  too,  is  but  a  span, 

And  glimmers  to  an  ending. 

XXVI. 
A  little  while,  in  grief  forlorn, 

The  empty-cradled  mother 
Sits  mourning  for  her  babe — new  born — 
Death-struck — and  from  her  bosom  torn, — 

Then  smiles  upon  another. 


I08  THE  GRAVE   ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

XXVII. 

The  many-childed  matron  dies, 
.   Whose  orphans  kneel  to  kiss  her, 
And,  while  upon  her  bier  she  lies, 
Anoint  her  with  their  weeping  eyes, — 
Then  cease  to  mourn  or  miss  her. 

XXVIII. 
The  bridegroom  drops,— and,  day  and  night, 

With  sorrow  unexceeded, 
The  bride  bewails  her  widowed  plight, — 
Until,  with  heavy  heart  grown  light, 

She  is  at  last  unweeded. 

XXIX. 
The  heart,  however  great  its  grief, 

Or  dearly  this  be  cherished, 
Or  clung  to  for  a  season  brief, 
Soon  sheds  it  like  a  loosened  leaf 

That  by  the  frost  hath  perished. 


THE   GRAVE   ON  THE  PRAIRIE.  IOQ 

XXX. 

The  bleeding  breast  survives  the  blow, 

The  pulses  cease  their  raging, 
The  fever  cools, — and  so,  we  know, 
There  never  comes  a  human  woe 

But  brings  its  own  assuaging. 

XXXI. 

So  what  if  Mary,  in  the  mould, 

With  carven  stone  above  her, 
Was  wept  when  first  her  clay  grew  cold, 
And  mourned  with  sorrow  manifold, 

By  wedded  lord  or  lover  ? — 

XXXII. 

Shall  then  a  carping  world  upbraid, 

If  he — though  broken-hearted 
When  Mary  in  her  grave  was  laid  — 
Thereafter,  with  another  maid, 

Re-tied  the  cord  that  parted  ? 


HO  THE   GRAVE   ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

XXXIII. 

There  is  a  time  for  tears, — but  then 

There  comes  a  truce  to  sorrow : 
It  is  the  manly  way  of  men, — 
They  love,  and  lose,  and  love  again, 
And  wed  anew  to-morrow. 

xxxiv. 
—I  lay  at  rest  an  hour  or  more, 

But  when  the  hounds,  long  hampered, 
Began  to  whimper,  and  implore 
To  chase  the  bison  as  before, — 

I  loosed  them,  and  they  scampered. 

XXXV. 

Hard  after  them,  with  leap  and  prance, 

I  galloped  down  the  prairie, — 
And  thought  how  strange  a  circumstance 
That  I,  a  stranger,  was  perchance 
Sole  mourner  left  for  Mary ! 


THE   JOY    OF    GRIEF. 


THE    JOY    OF    GRIEF. 

I. 

I  HAD  a  grief  too  great  for  tears, 
And  longed  to  weep,  but  tried  in  vain, 

Until  a  monk,  of  snowy  years, 
Appeared  before  me  in  my  pain, 

Who  said,  "  Receive  what  I  bestow, — 

Heaven's  balm  for  all  who  suffer  so." 

II. 

Resenting  madly,  at  the  first, 

The  blessing  of  the  saintly  sage, 
"  Depart  from  me — I  am  accurst !  " 

I  answered,  trembling  in  my  rage ; 

"3 


II4  THE   JOY  OF  GRIEF. 

"  Hath  Heaven  a  balm  ?     I  tell  thee  no  ! 
Else  why  am  I  tormented  so  ?  " 


III. 

"  My  son,"  said  he,  "  wring  not  thy  hands, 
Beat  not  thy  breast,  tear  not  thy  hair, 

But  lift  to  Heaven  thy  high  demands, 
From  knees  as  lowly  as  thy  prayer, 

And  bounteous  Heaven  shall  overflow 

With  showers  of  mercies  on  thee  so." 


IV. 

"  O  monk,  to  Heaven  my  prayer  I  breathed, 
To  grant  me  riches — honor — fame  ; 

But  straightway  Heaven  to  me  bequeathed 
A  beggar's  purse — a  caitiff's  name — 

Ambition's  fall — hope's  overthrow — 

And  love's  own  wounds,  now  bleeding  so ! 


THE  JOY  OF  GRIEF.  115 

V. 

"  Strip  off,  O  monk,  thy  gown  and  hood ! 

Fling  down  thy  rosary  to  the  dust ! 
There  is  no  God — if  God  be  good ! 

There  is  no  Heaven — if  Heaven  be  just! 
Life  is  but  mockery  here  below — 
If  grief  on  grief  can  pierce  it  so ! " 

VI. 

"  Though  life  hath  sorrow,"  quoth  the  friar, 
"  Is  death  a  boon  for  man  to  crave  ? 

Then  Heaven  shall  grant  thy  heart's  desire, — 
For  soon  thy  bones  shall  find  a  grave, 

And  from  thy  dust  the  grass  shall  grow, 

And  all  thy  pride  be  humbled  so !  " 

VII. 
Quoth  I,  "  Since  pain,  with  all  its  stings, 

Hath  none  to  reach  me  underground, 
Death,  welcome  as  the  peace  he  brings, 

Shall  not,  to  me,  come  terror-crowned  ; 


Il6  THE   JOY  OF  GRIEF. 

Nay,  I  to  Death  will  shout,  '  What  ho ! 
What  hath  delayed  thy  coming  so  ?  " 


VIII. 

Said  he,  "  O  sufferer,  understand 
That  thou  art  smitten  of  a  rod 

Not  wielded  by  an  angry  hand, 

For  He  who  scourgeth  thee  is  God, — 

Who  loveth  not  to  wound, — although 

He  needeth  to  chastise  thee  so." 


IX. 

I  cried,  "  What  is  the  need  or  gain 
Of  all  my  anguish  and  despair? 

What  profit  cometh  of  a  pain 

That  pierceth  more  than  flesh  can  bear? 

What  can  the  tortured  spirit  owe 

To  tyrant  Heaven  that  stings  it  so  ?  " 


THE   JOY  OF  GRIEF.  117 

X. 

"  My  son,"  he  whispered,  "  hear  me  speak: 

Doth  God  afflict  but  thee  alone  ? 
He  heareth  many  a  wilder  shriek- 
He  answereth  many  a  deeper  groan- 
He  striketh  many  a  heavier  blow- 
He  chasteneth  thee  and  others  so. 

XI. 
"  For  Life,  like  Death,— through  all  the  world, 

In  every  age  since  Time  began,— 
With  an  unerring  aim  hath  hurled 

A  quivering  dart  at  every  man, 
Till  by  the  torture,  swift  or  slow, 
Mankind  have  all  been  tested  so. 

XII. 

"  Take  solace  of  the  saints  of  old  ;— 

Of  Daniel  to  the  lions  flung,— 
Of  Joseph  into  Egypt  sold, 

Of  Israel  by  the  serpents  stung ;— 


U8  THE  JOY  OF  GRIEF. 

If  thou  endure  their  trials, — lo ! 

Thou  shalt  partake  their  triumphs  so ! " 


XIII. 

Such  lustre  sparkled  in  his  look 

That  fear  and  reverence  made  me  mute, 
And  courage  so  my  heart  forsook 

I  ceased  awhile  from  my  dispute ; 
Then,  forth  like  arrows  from  a  bow, 
I  winged  my  questions  thus  and  so : — 


XIV. 

"  O  monk,  what  is  thy  proffered  balm 
But  bitter  mockery  to  my  breast  ? — 

For  is  an  aching  heart  made  calm, 
Or  writhing  spirit  lulled  to  rest, 

Because,  in  ages  long  ago, 

The  martyrs  winced  and  quivered  so  ? 


THE  JOY  OF  GRIEF. 

XV. 
"  What  if  the  fiery  noonday  sun 

Shall  scorch  the  garden  to  a  blight, 
Until  the  fig-trees,  one  by  one, 

All  perish  in  the  gardener's  sight ; — 
Walks  he  among  them,  to  and  fro, 
Consoled  that  Eden  withered  so  ? 

XVI. 
"  What  if  the  admiral's  idle  sail, 

That  waits  to  catch  the  gentle  breeze, 
Be  smitten  of  the  bellowing  gale 

Till  whirlwinds  whistle  round  the  seas ; — 
Is  it  a  solace,  while  they  blow, 
That  ships  of  Tarshish  foundered  so? 

XVII. 
"  What  if  the  pilgrim's  heavy  pack 

Grow  wearier  with  the  lengthening  road, 
And  galling  to  his  aching  back, 

Until  he  staggers  with  his  load  ; — 


I20  THE   JOY  OF  GRIEF.' 

Is  he  renewed  in  strength  to  know 
That  Gaza's  gates  were  carried  so  ? 


XVIII. 

"  What  if  the  stricken  mother  mourn 
Because  the  darlings  of  her  womb 

Are  from  her  ravished  bosom  torn 
And  cradled  in  th'  unpitying  tomb  ;- 

Grieves  she  the  less  to  lay  them  low 

Since  Rachel  once  outwept  her  so  ? 


XIX. 

"  Though  round  the  world,  from  east  to  west, 
Each  human  heart,  on  shore  or  main, 

My  own  among  them,  like  the  rest, 
Should  quiver  to  the  self-same  pain,— 

How  could  the  universal  woe 

Make  my  unhappy  soul  less  so? 


THE   JOY  OF  GRIEF.  I2i 

XX. 

"  Were  I,  at  every  grief  I  bear, 
To  pray  that  Heaven  would  intervene 

To  give  all  other  men  a  share, — 
I  then  would  be  as  base  and  mean 

As  man's  first  murderer,  long  ago, — 

Yea,  far  more  fierce  and  cruel  so ! 

XXI. 

"  Thrice  worthier  were  the  wish,  in  me, 
To  suffer  more,  instead  of  less, 

4 

Could  all  the  groaning  world  go  free, 

Delivered  through  my  one  distress ; — 
Yea,  I  would  Heaven  itself  forego, 
To  win  it  for  my  fellows  so ! " 

XXII. 

Said  he,  "  O  slow  of  heart,  at  last 

The  balm  thou  seekest  thou  shalt  find ; 
6 


122  THE   JOY  OF  GRIEF. 

For  if,  with  all  the  strength  thou  hast, 

Thou  suffer  nobly  for  mankind, 
All  pain  which  thou  shalt  undergo. 
Shall  turn  to  bliss  and  rapture  so !  " 


XXIII. 

"  Alas!"  I  murmured,  "  how  can  I, — 
So  weak  in  wit,  so  poor  in  worth, 

So  little  fit  to  live  or  die,— 

Win  sweetly  down  from  Heaven  to  earth 

A  blessing  on  a  friend  or  foe 

By  virtue  of  my  suffering  so? * 


XXIV. 

With  voice  as  sweet  as  when  a  song, 
Though  ended,  seems  to  echo  still, 

He  whispered,  "  They  who  suffer  long — 
And  yet  are  patient — send  a  thrill 


THE   JOY  OF   GRIEF. 

Through  every  soul  to  whom  they  show 
The  aureole  of  their  sainthood  so ! 


XXV. 

"  Then  since  no  other  balm  avails 
To  cool  thy  fever  with  a  tear, 

Remember  thou  the  cross,  the  nails, 
The  thorns,  the  vinegar,  the  spear, — 

And  sweet  shall  be  thy  bitterest  throe 

Because  thy  Master  suffered  so." 


XXVI. 

So  tenderly  he  spoke  the  Name 
That  all  my  tears  began  to  start, 

Till  down  my  cheeks,  that  burned  with  shame, 
They  rolled  from  my  relenting  heart 

In  drops  as  plenteous  as  the  flow 

Of  Peter's  who  denied  Him  so. 


THE   JOY  OF  GRIEF. 
XXVII. 

Then  down  I  fell,  a  guilty  thing, 
Before  an  Angel  in  disguise, 

Who,  rustling  each  unfolding  wing, 
Replumed  it,  radiant,  for  the  skies,- 

Upon  whose  pinions,  white  as  snow, 

I  dared  not  look,  they  dazzled  so ! 


PRINCE    AND    PEASANT. 


PRINCE    AND    PEASANT. 

I. 

THE  king  of  Bernicia,  while  hunting, 
Saw  neither  a  fox,  nor  a  boar, 

But  startled  a  fawn  in  the  forest, 
That  timidly  ran  before ; 

And  this  was  the  forester's  daughter, 
Who  fled  to  her  father's  door. 

II. 

The  heart  of  her  royal  pursuer 

So  throbbed  with  a  rapturous  beat 
That,  after  the  manner  of  lovers, 

In  token  of  homage  complete, 

127 


128  PRINCE  AND  PEASANT. 

He  knelt  on  the  threshold  before  her, 
A  prince  at  a  peasant's  feet 


III. 

"  O  goddess/'  quoth  he,  "  no  mortal 
Can  beauty  like  thine  withstand  ! 

For  wilderness,  river,  and  mountain 
Have  moulded  thee  wild  and  grand ! 

So  I,  who  am  king  of  my  kingdom, 
Sue  here  for  thy  heart  and  hand." 


IV. 

The  virgin,  all  mute  with  marvel, 
Stood  motionless  like  a  tower  ! 

And  all  through  her  cheeks  ran  changes, 
Like  flushes  that  streak  a  flower! 

And  merely  a  moment  of  silence 
Seemed,  all  of  a  sudden,  an  hour! 


PRINCE  AND  PEASANT.  129 

V. 

The  forester  spake  for  his  daughter : 

"  My  liege,  she  is  lowly  born  ; 
No  dowry  is  hers  for  a  portion, 

Nor  jewels  a  bride  to  adorn  ; 
Thou  wooest  to  mock,  not  marry — 

Thou  speakest  in  jest,  or  scorn." 

VI. 

Outwhipping  his  weapon  in  anger, 
The  monarch  replied  with  a  frown, 

"  How  darest  thou  brand  me  a  jester, 
Or  liken  thy  lord  to  a  clown  ? 

A  king,  when  he  wishes  his  wedding, 

May  queen  whom  he  will  with  his  crown." 


VII. 

"  O  cease,"  said  the  maiden,  "  your  quarrel ! 

And  bid  me  to  love  you  both, — 
6* 


130  PRINCE  AND  PEASANT. 

For  why  should  a  peasant's  daughter 
To  marry  a  prince  be  loath  ? 

O  father,  I  plead  for  thy  blessing — 
O  lover,  I  plight  thee  my  troth." 

VIII. 

The  king,  though  in  Lincoln  doublet, 
As  green  as  a  summer  elm, — 

With  neither  his  crest  nor  armor, — 
With  neither  his  crown  nor  helm, — 

Yet  looked  as  the  Lord's  anointed, 
And  ruler  of  all  the  realm. 

IX. 

"  The  boon  of  beauty  to  woman 
Is  given  of  Heaven,"  said  he, 

"  But  kings  of  the  earth  have  bounty, 
For  they  can  give  high  degree ; 

Which  I,  as  thy  liege,  O  lady, 
Give  now  unto  thine  and  thee." 


PRINCE  AND  PEASANT.  131 

X. 

He  sent  with  a  gleam  to  the  scabbard 
The  blade  he  had  drawn  for  a  fight, 

But  not  till  he  smote  his  foeman 
To  dub  him  a  noble  knight ! — 

(An  honor  that,  save  in  romances, 
Is  seldom  conferred  on  a  wight.) 

XL 

The  monarch  embraced  the  maiden, 
Who  tenderly  clave  and  clung, — 

Her  hair,  by  the  wind  disheveled, 
All  hither  and  thither  flung, — 

And  never  were  wilder  lovers 

Since  time  and  the  world  were  young ! 

XII. 

"  Prepare  thee,  O  bride,  for  thy  bridal, 
Thou  daughter,"  said  he,  "  of  an  earl ! 


132  PRINCE  AND  PEASANT. 

The  earth,  it  shall  give  thee  a  diamond — 
The  sea,  it  shall  give  thee  a  pearl — 

And  Heaven,  it  shall  give  thee  a  blessing,- 
O  princess  and  peasant-girl ! " 

XIII. 

The  aisle  of  the  old  cathedral, 

That  up  to  the  altar  led, 
Was  strewn  for  their  feet  with  lilies, 

And  thither  they  walked  to  be  wed, — 
In  presence  of  throngs  of  the  living, 

In  presence  of  tombs  of  the  dead. 

XIV. 
The  bride-cake  was  big  as  a  mountain, 

And  virgins  from  near  and  far 
Put  crumbs  of  it  under  their  pillows 

To  dream  of  the  lucky  star 
That  dawns  on  a  fortunate  marriage, — • 

Though  marriages  seldom  are ! 


PRINCE  AND  PEASANT. 

XV. 
For  since  they  are  made  in  Heaven 

(Or  certes  the  proverb  is  wrong) 
Of  course  they  so  very  rarely 

To  earth,  and  to  mortals,  belong, 
That  perfectly  married  people 
Wed  only  in  story  or  song ! 

XVI. 

Now  as  to  the  truth  of  the  ditty, 
If  doubters  be  hard  to  convince, 

Or  deem  it  so  very  unlikely 
A  peasant  could  marry  a  prince, 

Why,  let  them  remember  it  happened 
Some  thousands  of  centuries  since ! 


SHORTER  POEMS. 


THE   LORD   OF  THE   LAND. 

THE  gates  of  the  city  stood  open  wide, 
And,  just  beyond,  on  the  country  side, 
The  beggars  were  huddled  upon  the  grass, 
Expecting  the  Lord  of  the  Land  to  pass. 
He  often  went  out — he  often  came  in, 
But  never  with  herald,  nor  trumpet's  din : 
He  might  be  early — he  might  be  late : 
So  always  the  beggars  kept  near  the  gate : 
For  so  the  poor  on  the  rich  must  wait. 

The  crew  was  motley,  and  clad  in  rags : 

The  men  were  squalid— the  women  were  hags ; 

The  children  were  wasted  to  skin  and  bones ; 

The  dogs  had  hungry  and  human  tones  ! 

137 


138  THE  LORD   OF  THE  LAND. 

On  man  and  beast  was  poverty's  blight ! 
Forlorn  and  pitiful  was  the  sight ! 
And  O,  the  mothers,  with  babes  at  the  breast, 
Looked  far  more  wretched  than  all  the  rest ! 

The  lord  in  his  chariot  rumbles  by ; 
The  beggars  salute  him  with  clamorous  cry. 
Will  the  horses  halt  ?     Will  the  rider  heed  ? 
Will  the  rich  befriend  the  poor  in  their  need  ? 

The  chariot  stops,  and  the  lord  descends : 
"  I  travel  in  haste,"  saith  he,  "  my  friends ; 
If  you  wait  in  hope  of  an  alms  to-day, 
Speak  quickly  each,  for  I  hurry  away." 

Cried  one,  "  I  am  hungry — I  ask  for  bread  ! " 
The  proud  lord  graciously  answered  and  said  : 
"  Poor  soul,  then  go  and  knock  at  my  door — 
If  hunger  is  all,  thou  shalt  want  no  more." 


THE  LORD    OF  THE  LAND.  139 

Quoth  a  cripple,  "  My  lord,  I  am  lame,  you  see ; 
In  charity,  prithee  remember  me." 
"  Nay,  charity  cannot  profit  thee  much — 
I  will  help  thee  to  do  without  thy  crutch." 

"  My  lord,"  cried  one,  "  I  am  blind — I  am  blind  ; 

So  out  of  your  bounty  be  kind,  be  kind  ! " 

"  Yea,  help  thee  I  can,  and  help  thee  I  must ; 

Thine  eyes  shall  be  touched  with  a  little  dust, 

And  ever  thereafter,  O  blinded  man, 

Thou  shalt  see  as  well  as  thy  comrades  can ! " 

Still  closer  about  him  pressed  the  crowd, — 
With  murmurs  feeble,  with  clamors  loud. 

"  I  pray  for  a  shelter,  my  lord, — I  am  old : 
A  corner  to  lie  in,  when  nights  are  cold  ! " 
"  Old  man,  I  have  houses  just  out  of  the  town — 
Go  choose  thee  a  lodging,  and  lay  thee  down." 


140  THE  LORD   OF  THE  LAND. 

"  My  lord,"  said  a  lad,  with  thin,  white  palms, 
"  An  orphan  begs  for  a  little  alms !  " 
"  My  boy,  thou  art  young,  but  ere  thou  art  old, 
I  promise  thee  all  thy  hands  can  hold." 

Quoth  a  stalwart  man,  "  I  am  willing  to  toil ; 
So  set  me  at  work — I  will  dig  your  soil." 
"  A  plot  of  my  ground  shall  be  thine  in  fee, 
But  another,  O  delver,  shall  dig  it  for  thee." 

A  woman,  too  feeble  to  toil  or  spin, 

Said,  "  Help  me  to  go  to  my  kith  and  kin ! " 

"  Thy  kith  and  kin  I  remember  well — 

I  gladly  will  send  thee  to  where  they  dwell." 

"  My  lord,"  sighed  a  sufferer,  sick  and  faint, 
"  I  hardly  have  strength  to  utter  complaint ; 
My  fever  is  fiercer  than  I  can  bear — 
I  need  physician,  and  nurse,  and  care." 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  LAND. 

"  Go  lie  in  my  hospital  on  the  hill, 
And  thou  shalt  be  cured  of  every  ill." 


Thus  flocked  they  around  him,  each  urging  a  plea, 
And  never  had  beggars  a  bounty  so  free  : 
Whatever  they  asked  for,  he  granted  their  prayer  ; 
And  even  the  dumb  received  their  share, 
Whose  lips  asked  not,  but  whose  piteous  tale 
Was  told  in  their  faces,  haggard  and  pale. 


Of  all  the  rabble,  the  last  who  spoke 

Was  the  nakedest  carl  of  the  ragged  folk : 

"  My  lord,"  he  clamored,  "  I  beg  for  a  cloak !  " 


The  great  lord  answered,  with  pitying  tone, 
"  I  cannot  deny  thee — take  my  own  !  " 
Then,  doffing  his  mantle  of  sable-black, 
He  flung  it  over  the  beggar's  back ! 


I42       THE  LORD  OF  THE  LAND. 

The  uncloaked  lord,  by  this  wild  whim, 
Stood  forth  a  skeleton,  gaunt  and  grim ! 
The  beggars,  astounded,  gasped  for  breath, 
And  knew  that  their  bountiful  friend  was  Death. 


THE    WANDERER'S    SONG. 


THROUGH  many  a  kingdom  and  city  and  land, 
I  travel  away  from  the  clasp  of  thy  hand  ; 
But  whether  on  mountain  or  river  or  sea, — • 
Wherever  I  wander,  my  heart  is  with  thee  ! 


II. 

The  purple  and  gold  at  the  break  of  the  day, 
The  sparkle  of  dew-drops  that  sprinkle  my  way, 
The  bloom  on  the  meadow,  the  bud  on  the  tree,- 
Whatever  hath  beauty  reminds  me  of  thee  ! 


THE    WANDERER'S  SONG. 
III. 

The  trill  of  the  lark  as  he  soars  to  the  sky, 
The  sigh  of  the  pine  as  the  wind  fleeth  by, 
The  hymn  of  the  locust,  the  hum  of  the  bee, 
Whatever  makes  melody  whispers  of  thee  !. 


IV. 

If  I,  as  a  bard,  strike  a  note  of  my  own, 
Of  banquet  and  laughter,  of  battle  and  groan, 
My  song  is  a  love-song,  whatever  the  key, — 
Whatever  I  sing  of,  I  sing  it  for  thee ! 


V. 

The  brow  of  the  mower  is  beaded  with  sweat,- 
His  task  is  a  hardship,  his  toil  is  a  fret ; 
But  light  as  a  feather  my  load  is  to  mey — 
Whatever  the  burden,  I  bear  it  for  thee ! 


THE   WANDERER'S  SONG.  145 

VI. 

The  air  is  enchanted  wherever  I  go — 
Thyself  the  enchantress  who  charmeth  it  so  ! — 
And  bountiful  Nature  is  buoyant  and  free 
Because  her  own  spirit  is  borrowed  of  thee ! 


VII. 

Without  thee  the  world  would  be  empty  and  drear, 
For  thou  art  the  blessing  that  gives  it  its  cheer ! 
I  care  not  what  fortune  the  Fates  may  decree, — 
My  treasure  of  treasures  is  only  in  thee ! 


VIII. 

Of  all  the  fair  fancies  that  flit  through  my  brain, 
That  come  and  go  quickly,  too  bright  to  remain, 
One  vanisheth  never,  though  others  may  flee, — 

And  this  is  the  ima'ge,  my  darling,  of  thee ! 
7 


146  THE    WANDERER'S  SONG. 

IX. 

To  love  thee  in  absence  is  rapture  of  bliss : 

Then  what  were  thy  presence,  and  what  were  thy 

.kiss? 

— From  mountain  to  river,  from  river  to  sea, 
I  hasten,  my  darling,  I  hasten  to  thee ! 


LYRA    INCANTATA. 

I. 

WITHIN  a  castle  haunted 
(As  castles  were  of  old) 
There  hung  a  harp  enchanted, 
And,  on  its  rim  of  gold, 
This  legend  was  enscrolled  : 

"  Whatever  bard  would  win  me, 
Must  strike  and  wake  within  me, 
By  one  supreme  endeavor, 
A  chord  that  sounds  forever." 

II. 
Three  bards  of  lyre  and  viol, 

By  mandate  of  the  king, 

147 


1 48  LYRA   IN  CANTATA. 

Were  bidden  to  a  trial 

To  find  the  magic  string — 
(If  there  were  such  a  thing). 
Then,  after  much  essaying 
Of  tuning,  came  the  playing ; 
And  lords  and  ladies  splendid 
Watched  as  those  bards  contended. 


III. 

* 

The  first,  a  minstrel  hoary — 

Who  many  a  rhyme  had  spun — 
Sang  loud  of  war  and  glory, 
Of  battles  fought  and  won  : 
But  when  his  song  was  done, 
Although  the  bard  was  lauded, 
And  clapping  hands  applauded, 
Yet,  spite  of  the  laudation, 
The  harp  ceased  its  vibration. 


LYRA  INCANTATA. 
IV. 


The  second  changed  the  measure, 
And  turned  from  fire  and  sword 
To  sing  a  song  of  pleasure,— 
The  wine-cup  and  the  board  :   > 
Till,  at  his  wit,  all  roared, 
And  the  high  hall  resounded 
With  merriment  unbounded  ! 
The  harp,  loud  as  the  laughter, 
Grew  hushed  as  that,  soon  after  ! 


V. 

The  third,— in  lover's  fashion, 
And  with  his  soul  on  fire,— 

Then  sang  of  love's  pure  passion,- 
The  heart  and  its  desire  : 
And,  as  he  smote^the  wire, 


LYRA   INCANTATA. 

The  listeners,  gathering  round  him, 
Caught  up  a  wreath  and  crowned  him ! 
The  crown — hath  faded  never ! 
The  harp — resounds  forever  ! 


AMONG    THE    REEDS. 


SWIM  fast,  O  wounded  swan,  swim  fast ! 

Thy  mate  awaits  thee  in  her  nest,— 
Not  dreaming  that  the  dart  was  cast 

Which  quivers  in  thy  bleeding  breast ! 


II. 


Swim  fast,  O  dying  swan,  swim  fast  ! 

Die  not  till  she  beholds  thy  fate,— 
Lest  she  may  deem  some  fickle  blast 

Hath  blown  thee  to  another  mate  ! 


152  AMONG    THE  REEDS. 

III. 

Swim  fast,  O  faithful  swan,  swim  fast ! 

The  adverse  tide  is  swift  and  strong ! 
Swim  fast,  swim  fast,  until  at  last 

Thou  sing  to  her  thy  dying  song ! 


LONESOME. 


I  WANDER  by  the  sparkling  stream 

That  shimmers  in  the  morning  sun, 
But  all  the  glitter  and  the  gleam 
Now  mock  me  like  an  empty  dream, — 
Through  thinking  of  an  absent  one. 

II. 

I  listen  to  the  robin's  note, 

But  find  no  music  in  his  lay, 
For  though  he  hath  a  merry  throat, 
And  many  lovers  on  him  dote, 

Yet  my  true  lover  is  away. 

7*  153 


154  LONESOME. 

III. 

I  pluck  the  sweet  and  dewy  rose, 

But,  spite  of  all  the  dews  of  morn, 
No  sweetness  in  a  bud  that  blows 
Remaineth  when  my  lover  goes, — 
Whose  going  leaves  my  heart  forlorn. 

IV. 

I  weary  of  the  clouds  that  fly, 

I  weary  of  the  winds  that  roar, 
I  weary  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
I  weary  of  my  own  sad  sigh, — 
Till  my  true  lover  comes  once  more ! 


FLOWN. 

O  DOVE  of  Peace,  thou  long  ago 

Wert  wont,  on  many  a  weary  day, 
To  brood  so  sweetly  on  my  woe 

That  half  the  pain  was  charmed  away ! 
Then  rudely  did  I  thee  affright, 

And  roughly  did  I  thee  affray, — 
Till  thou  wert  driven  to  seek,  by  flight, 

Some  gentler  friend  with  whom  to  stay. 
But  now  I  bend  my  straining  sight, 

As  twilight  falls  on  bank  and  brae, 
To  watch  until  thy  pinions  white 

Gleam  toward  me  through  the  evening  gray ! 
Fly  downward  from  thy  heavenly  height, 

To  be  again  my  holy  guest ! 

155 


FLOWN. 

Where  wilt  thou  on  the  earth  alight, 
If  not  in  a  repentant  breast? 

Haste  hither  to  a  heart  contrite 
To  lull  its  restlessness  to  rest ! 

Come  fold  thy  wings  with  me  to-night, 
And  let  my  bosom  be  thy  nest ! 


CROSS    AND    CRESCENT. 


i. 


"  DOWN  with  the  Infidel  abhorred  ! 

Up  with  the  banner  of  the  Lord  !  " 
So  the  Crusaders  sang, 

As  into  Palestine  they  poured, 

While,  with  defiant  clash  and  clang, 
Their  swords  and  bucklers  rang. 


II. 

"  Death  to  the  Christian  dogs  !  "  replied 

The  scornful  Moslems,  in  their  pride ; 

157 


158  CJtOSS  AND   CRESCENT. 

11  Let  Allah's  host  advance  ! " 
Then,  in  the  sunshine, — far  and  wide, — 
Like  summer  lightning  was  the  glance 
Of  scimetar  and  lance. 

III. 

Fair  Heaven  on  both  their  armies  smiled, 
And  wished  the  foemen  reconciled ; 

But,  in  their  pious  rage, 
Each  by  the  other  was  reviled, — 

Till  now,  in  wrath,  from  age  to  age, 

Eternal  war  they  wage. 

IV. 

How  can  the  sacred  discord  end  ? 
How  can  the  Cross  and  Crescent  blend  ? 

How  can  the  trumpet  cease 
That  calls  their  pennons  to  contend  ? 

O  Crescent,  wane  !     O  Cross,  increase ! 

From  Truth  alone  comes  Peace ! 


CXOSS  AND    CRESCENT.  159 

V. 

The  whole  Creation  groans  with  pain 
Till  He  whose  right  it  is  shall  reign ! 

When  shall  His  reign  begin  ? 
When  shall  the  chariots  quit  the  plain  ? 

O  Cross,  above  the  battle's  din, 

Thy  peaceful  triumph  win  ! 

VI. 

A  little  child,  with  shepherd's  crook, 
Through  pastures  green,  by  water-brook, 

Shall  Lamb  and  Lion  lead : 
So  saith  thy  promise,  Holy  Book ! 

Then,  since  the  word  is  fair  to  read, 

Fulfill  it  with  the  deed ! 


THE    BARD'S    LISTENER. 

I. 

I  STRUNG  my  lyre 

With  golden  wire, 

To  sing  a  song  of  pure  desire : 

A  maiden  heard 

Whose  soul  was  stirred 

Until  her  bosom  glowed  with  fire. 

II. 

"  How  can  it  be 
That  chant  and  glee 

Have  such  a  dangerous  power?"  quoth  she. 

160 


THE  SARD'S  LISTENER.  161 

— My  lyre,  that  day, 

She  stole  away, 

And  hid  it  under  lock  and  key. 

III. 

"  Why  do  you  hide 

My  harp?"  I  cried. 

— "  Because,"  the  blushing  maid  replied, 

"  I  seek  to  know 

Which  thrilled  me  so, 

The  song  or  singer  ?  " — and  she  sighed. 

IV. 

The  long  day  fled, 

And  back  I  sped 

To  ask,  at  eve,  with  hope  and  dread, — 

"  Which  was  it  ?  pray ! 

The  bard  or  lay?" 

— "  I  quite  forgot  you  both  !  "  she  said. 


MARGERY'S    BEADS. 

I. 

QUOTH  I  to  pretty  Margery  More, 

"  Where  are  the  beads  that  once  you  wore  ? 


II. 

Gay  Margery  sighed,  and  drooped  her  head, 
And  with  a  mournful  murmur  said : 


III. 


"  I  counted  lovers, — one,  two,  three, — 

Each  swearing  he  would  die  for  me. 

162 


MARGERY'S  BEADS.  163 

IV. 

"  1  then  devised  a  cruel  test 

To  prove  which  lover  loved  me  best : 

v. 

"  I  held  my  beads  above  a  well, 

And  let  them  slip,  and  down  they  fell. 

VI. 

"'  Leap  in  ! '  cried  I,  '  my  pretty  men, 
And  bring  me  up  my  beads  again ! ' 

VII. 

"  I  tried  to  guess  which  youth  would  dive, 
And  come  up,  panting,  half  alive ! 

VIII. 

"  But  love  makes  every  man  a  fool : 
All  three  dove  down  into  the  pool ! 


1 64  MARGERY'S  BEADS. 

IX. 

"The  pool  was  deep, — they  all  were  drowned,- 
And  never  were  their  bodies  found  ! 

x. 

"  What  maid  was  ever  punished  so  ?  " 
And  Margery's  tears  began  to  flow. 

XI. 

Long,  long  the  maid,  whom  Fate  had  robbed 
Of  her  three  lovers,  sat  and  sobbed. 

XII. 

"  Sad  heart,"  quoth  I,  "  grieve  not  so  sore— 
You  yet  may  find  three  lovers  more." 

XIII. 

"  Alas !  "  quoth  she,  "  my  bosom  bleeds, 
Not  for  my  lovers,  but  my  beads !  " 


THE    FOUR  SEASONS. 

i. 

IN  the  balmy  April  weather, 

My  love,  you  know, 

When  the  corn  began  to  grow, 
What  walks  we  took  together, 
What  sighs  we  breathed  together, 
What  vows  we  pledged  together, 

In  the  days  of  long  ago ! 

II. 

In  the  golden  summer  weather, 
My  love,  you  know, 
When  the  mowers  went  to  mow, 


!66  THE  FOUR  SEASONS. 

What  home  we  built  together, 
What  babes  we  watched  together, 
What  plans  we  planned  together, 
While  the  skies  were  all  aglow ! 


III. 

In  the  rainy  autumn  weather, 

My  love,  you  know, 

When  the  winds  began  to  blow, 
What  tears  we  shed  together, 
What  mounds  we  heaped  together, 
What  hopes  we  lost  together, 

When  we  laid  our  darlings  low ! 


IV. 

In  the  wild  and  wintry  weather, 
My  love,  you  know, 
With  our  heads  as  white  as  snow, 


THE  FOUR  SEASONS.  167 

What  prayers  we  pray  together, 
What  fears  we  share  together, 
What  Heaven  we  seek  together, 
For  our  time  has  come  to  go ! 


THE  ARTLESS  ART. 

'• 

I  SANG  my  lady  many  a  lay 

To  win  her  by  the  music  in  it, 
But  word  and  tune  were  thrown  away, 
Till,  haply  on  a  morn  in  May, 

I  chanced  to  hear  a  singing  linnet. 

II. 

Now  many  a  bird  of  brighter  coat 

May  plume  himself  on  his  apparel, 
But  never  in  a  warbler's  throat 
Was  trilled  a  more  enchanting  note 

Than  quivered  in  that  linnet's  carol. 

168 


THE  ARTLESS  ART. 
III. 

"  O  tiny,  passion-tortured  thing, 

Thy  song,"  quoth  I,  "hath  all  its  rapture 
Because  thou  amorously  dost  sing — 
In  these,  the  wooing  days  of  spring — 

Thy  velvet-mantled  mate  to  capture. 

IV. 

41  With  song  like  thine,  O  bonny  bird, 

If  I  could  sing  it  half  so  sweetly, 
Then,  haply,  if  my  lady  heard, 
Her  stony  bosom  would  be  stirred, 
And  I  would  win  her  love  completely. 

v. 

"  So  I  implore  thee  to  impart 
Unto  thy  ruder  brother-poet 
The  secret  of  the  songful  art 
To  charm  a  lady's  haughty  heart 

Till  on  the  singer  she  bestow  it." 
8 


THE  ARTLESS  ART. 

VI. 

"  No  art  is  mine  to  tell  thee  of," 

The  songster  said,  "  for  I  disdain  it : 
Go  ask  the  robin — ask  the  dove — 
Ask  every  bird  that  sings  of  love : 
We  feel  it,  but  we  never  feign  it. 

VII. 

"  Then  go  and  woo  as  song-birds  do, 

Who,  from  the  seed-time  to  the  sickle, 
Love  faithfully  the  season  through, 
Nor  change  the  old  love  for  a  new, 
Nor  prove  (as  men  do)  false  and  fickle. 

VIII. 

"  Forbear  a  poet's  fatal  pride 

In  praising  every  charmer's  beauty, 
But  ever  to  thy  chosen  bride, — 
To  her  alone,  and  none  beside, — 
Sing  thou  a  song  of  love  and  duty." 


/•///:  ARTLESS  ART.  171 

IX. 

On  that  same  day,  with  hope  elate, 
Beneath  an  arbor  green  and  shady, 

To  that  same  maid  who  held  my  fate, — 

Like  that  same  linnet  to  his  mate, 
I  sang  my  lay,  and  won  my  lady ! 


IN   GOD'S  ACRE. 

i. 

THOU  art  alive,  O  grave, — 
Thou  with  thy  living  grass, 
Blown  of  all  winds  that  pass, — 
Thou  with  thy  daisies  white, 
Dewy  at  morn  and  night, — 
Thou  on  whose  granite  stone 
Greenly  the  moss  has  grown, — 
Thou  on  whose  holy  mound, 
Through  the  whole  summer  round, 
Sweetly  the  roses  thrive, — 
Thou  art  alive  ! 

O  grave,  thou  art  alive ! 

172 


IN  GOD'S  ACRE.  173 

II. 

Answer  me,  then,  O  grave, — 
Yea,  from  thy  living  bloom 
Speak  to  me,  O  green  tomb, — 
Say  if  the  maid  I  know, 
Sepulchred  here  below,— 
Say  if  the  sweet  white  face, 
Hidden  in  this  dark  place, — 
Say  if  the  hair  of  gold 
Buried  amid  thy  mould, — 
Say,  O  thou  grave,  her  bed, — 
Is  my  love  dead  ? 
O  say,  are  the  dead  dead  ? 


FLUTE  AND  LUTE. 

A  LOVER,  with  flute, 
And  a  lady,  with  lute, 

Sat  playing  in  discord  together ; 
And  the  wind  rose  high 
In  the  cloudy  sky, 

And  winterish  was  the  weather ! 


"  If  it  be  love  (sang  she) 

If  it  be  love, 

Tell  me,  Is  thine 
Equal  to  mine? 
Give  me  some  sign 

If  it  be  love." 

174 


FLUTE  AND  LUTE. 

"  If  it  be  love  (piped  he) 

If  it  be  love, 

Keep  it  at  rest 
Deep  in  thy  breast, 
Asking  no  test 

If  it  be  love." 


Then,  sweeter  than  lute, 
And  softer  than  flute, 

Their  lips  came  close  together ; 
And  the  clouds  rolled  by, 
And  blue  was  the  sky, 

And  sunshiny  was  the  weather ! 


BONAVENTURA. 

I. 

"  COME  tell  me  my  fortune ! — and  when  it  is  told, 
Though  some  give  you  silver,  yet  /  will  give  gold  : 
My  lover  afar — is  he  faithful  ?  O  say  !— 
Then  why  doth  he  loiter  so  long  on  the  way  ?  " 


II. 

"  I  see,  by  thy  hand,  that  thy  lover  shall  ride 
From  over  the  desert  to  make  thee  his  bride ! 
Like  dew  to  the  bud,  or  the  bud  to  the  bee, 

So  thou  to  thy  lover,  thy  lover  to  thee  ! " 

176 


BON  A  VENTURA.  !  77 

III. 

The  teller  of  fortunes  flung  off  his  disguise, 
And  there  stood  her  lover,  with  love  in  his  eyes ! 
Then  each  of  their  fortunes,  more  precious  than 

gold, 
Was  just  what  the  arms  of  two  lovers  could  hold ! 

8* 


CUPID'S   PUZZLE. 
I. 

A  MAID,  who  was  milking  her  cow  in  the  clover, 
Kept  warbling  a  love-ditty  over  and  over, — 
And  this  was  the  song  that  she  sang : 
"  O  would  there  were  love,  without  plague  of  a 

lover ! 

For  love,  without  lover,  if  so  it  could  be, 
Were  love  without  trouble  and  torment,"  quoth 

she, 

"  And  this  is  the  love  for  me  !  " 
Then,  patting  her  cow, 
She  uttered  a  vow, — 

"  I  never  will  marry,  but  tarry  as  now ! 

178 


CUPID'S  PUZZLE.  179 

My  heart  is  my  own,  and  my  fancy  is  free ; 
And  as  for  a  sailor  forever  at  sea, 
What  kind  of  a  lover  is  lie?  " 


II. 

Then,  softly  behind  her,  there  stole  through  the 

clover 

A  sailor,  just  landed  from  all  the  seas  over, 
Who  forward  in  front  of  her  sprang : 
"  My  darling,  behold  me,  thy  truant  true  lover ! 
And  here  is  the  ring  that  I  promised  to  thee  !- 
And  when,  at  the  church,  thou  art  wedded  to  me, 
Farewell  to  the  rolling  sea!" 
Now  maids  are  inclined 
To  changes  of  mind  ; 

So  she,  who  was  cruel,  turned  suddenly  kind ! 
"  His  heart  is  as  faithful  as  ever,"  thought  she. 
"  Her  cheek  is  as  red  as  a  cherry,"  thought  he, 
"  Or  bud  of  a  blush-rose  tree  !  " 


I8o  CUPID'S  PUZZLE. 

III. 

Then  after  the  wedding  had  come,  and  was  over, 
She  frequently  patted  her  cow  in  the  clover, 
And  this  was  the  song  that  she  sang : 
"  Now  what  do  I  love? — is  it  love,  or  my  lover? — 
Which  is  it,  I  wonder,  or  ougJit  it  to  be  ? 
It  puzzles  me,  that  or  he  ?  " 
The  question  grew  deep  as  the  sea, — 
For  never  the  bride 
Knew  how  to  divide 

The  love  in  her  heart  from  the  man  at  her  side. 
"  What  is  it  a  woman  loves  best  ?  "  quoth  she  : 
"  Herself,  and  her  love,  and  her  lover — all  three ! 
And  this  is  the  love  for  me  !  " 


"A   FRIEND   IN   NEED   IS  A   FRIEND 
INDEED." 

I. 

THE  old  Taff  tavern  had  for  a  sign, 

A  faded  flagon  of  painted  wine, 

With  a  mouldy  motto  that  meant  to  read, — 

"  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed." 

II. 

When  farmer,  fisher,  and  hunter  were  there, 
To  mingle  their  mirth,  or  kill  their  care,— 
However  they  wrangled,  in  this  they  agreed : 

"  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed." 

181 


1 82    A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  IS  A  FRIEND  INDEED. 

III. 

They  drank  to  the  tavern-sign,  one  day, — 
Till  mugs  of  pewter  and  pipes  of  clay 
Made  foam  of  liquor  and  fume  of  weed : 
"  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed." 


IV. 

"  Then  here's  to  the  truest  of  friends !  "  said  one 
"  What  friend  hath  a  hunter  so  true  as  his  gun  ? 
It  renders  him  service  with  uttermost  speed : 
1  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed.' " 


V. 

"  But  what  if  thy  powder,  my  lad,  be  wet  ? 
No  fair-weather  friend  is  a  fisherman's  net ! 
Mine  earneth  me  many  a  tankard  of  mead: 
4  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed.' " 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  IS  A  FRIEND  INDEED.     183 

VI. 

"  Thy  gun  is  a  slayer — thy  net  is  a  snare : 
Of  friends  so  bloody  and  crafty,  beware ! 
The  plough  ! — It  toileth  the  hungry  to  feed  : 
'  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed.' " 


VII. 

Then,  thumping  the  table,  they  said  with  a  laugh, 
"  Now  who  shall  decide  it  but  Grandfather  Taff  ?— 
For  he  is  the  landlord  who  lives  by  the  creed, 
'A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed.' " 


VIII. 


"  Say,  which  is  a  man's  best  friend  ?"  they  cried, 
"The  gun,  or  the  net,  or  the  plough? — Decide! — 
The  young  should  unto  the  old  give  heed : 
'  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed.' " 


1 84    A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  IS  A  FRIEND  INDEED. 

IX. 

"  What  fools,"  cried  the  patriarch,  "  young  men 

are! 

I  drink  to  the  buxom  maid  of  the  bar, 
Whom  I  to  the  altar  to-morrow  shall  lead ! 
*  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed.' " 


RECOMPENSE. 

THE  Temple  of  the  Lord  stood  open  wide, 
And  worshippers  went  up  from  many  lands, 
Who,  kneeling  at  the  altar,  side  by  side, 
Made  votive  offerings  with  uplifted  hands. 

Their  gifts  were  gold,  and  frankincense,  and  myrrh. 


Then,  with  a  lustrous  gleam  and  rapturous  stir, 
While  all  the  people  trembled  and  turned  pale, 
There  flew  an  Angel  to  the  altar-rail, 

Who,  with  anointed  eyes,  keen  to  discern, 

185 


1 86  RECOMPENSE. 

Gazed,  noting  all  the  kneelers,  who  they  were, 
And  what  was  each  one's  tribute  to  the  Lord, — 
And,  gift  for  gift,  with  sudden,  swift  return, 
Bestowed  on  every  suppliant  his  reward. 

O  mocking  recompense !  To  one,  a  spear ! 
To  many,  each  a  thorn  !  To  some,  a  nail ! 
To  all,  a  cross  !  But  unto  none,  a  crown ! 

At  last,  they  saw  the  Angel  disappear. 

Then,  as  their  timid  hearts  shook  off  their  fear, 
Some  rose  in  anger,  flung  their  treasures  down, 
And  cried,  "  Such  gifts  from  Heaven  as  these,  we 

spurn ! 

They  are  too  cruel,  and  too  keen  to  bear ! 
They  are  too  grievous  for  a  human  breast ! 
Heaven  sends  us  heartache,  misery,  and  despair ! 
We  knelt  for  blessing,  but  we  rise  unblest ! 
If  Heaven  so  mock  us,  we  will  cease  to  pray ! " 


RECOMPENSE.  187 

They  left  the  altar,  and  they  went  their  way ; 
But  their  blaspheming  hearts  were  then  self-torn 
Far  more  by  pride,  and  heaven-defying  scorn, 
Than  pierced  before  by  nail,  or  spear,  or  thorn ! 

A  few  (not  many !)  with  their  brows  down  bent, 
Gave  thanks  for  each  sharp  gift  that  Heaven  had 

sent, — 

And  each  embraced  his  separate  pain  and  sting, 
As  if  it  were  some  sweet  and  pleasant  thing, — 
And  each  his  cross,  with  joyful  tears,  did  take, 
To  bear  it  for  the  great  Cross-bearer's  sake. 

Then  lo !  as  from  the  Temple  forth  they  went, 
Their  bleeding  bosoms,  though  with  anguish  rent, 
Had,  spite  of  all  their  pain  ! — a  sweet  content ; 
For  on  each  brow,  though  not  to  mortal  sight, 
The  vanished  Angel  left  a  crown  of  light ! 


THE  THREE   FATES. 


CLOTHO Birth. 

LACHESIS Life. 

ATROPOS Death. 


I. 

LET  me  sing  a  sullen  hymn 
To  the  Triple  Sisters  grim  ! 
Never  since  the   world  began, 
Were  they  gentle  unto  man  ! 
Never  till  the  world  shall  end, 
Will  they  be  a  mortal's  friend ! 
Since  they  oft  have  done  me  wrong, 

I  will  chide  them  with  a  song  ! 

1 88 


THE   THREE  FATES.  189 

II. 

Clotho,— oldest  of  the  old, 
Wierd  and  hateful  to  behold, — 
Doth  a  distaff  ever  twirl, 
Whence  is  spun,  at  every  whirl, 
Subtile  yarn,  so  fine  and  white 
That  it  baffles  human  sight,— 
Yet  it  twineth  round,  at  birth, 
Every  babe  born  on  the  earth  ! — 
For,  when  Clotho  sits  and  spins, 
Then  the  thread  of  life  begins. 


III. 

Close  beside  her, — fierce  of  mien, 
Wild  and  haggard,  wan  and  lean,- 
Lachesis,  her  sister,  stands — 
With  her  spindle  in  her  hands : 


THE   THREE  FATES. 

Measuring  out  to  every  man, 
Brief  or  long,  his  mortal  span ! — 
Reeling  forth  from  off  the  coil 
Just  his  term  of  life  and  toil ! 

IV. 

Atropos, — whose  ghastly  face 
Frighteneth  all  the  human  race, — 
Waiteth  till  the  hour  draws  nigh 
When  a  mortal  man  must  die : 
Then,  all  heedless  of  his  tears, 
Hastening  thither  with  her  shears, 
Ruthlessly  she  cuts  the  thread, — 
And  her  victim  droppeth  dead  ! 

v. 

O  ye  spectral  Sisters  Three, 
What  remains  unwound  for  me  ? — 
Clotho  hath  her  portion  spun  ! — 
Lachesis  will  soon  be  done  ! — 


THE  THREE  FATES.  ,9, 

Atropos  is  near,  and  waits  ! 
-Yet  as  what  ye  spin,  O  Fates, 

Is  but  poor  and  worthless  stuff, 

Now  my  thread  is  long  enough  ! 


THE    MYSTIC    MESSAGE. 

A  WILD-EYED  virgin,  strange  in  her  attire, 
Watched  the  crusading  hosts,  in  their  advance, 
And  gazed  from  line  to  line,  from  lance  to  lance, 
With  eager  look  to  see  the  king  of  France ; 
Whom,  when  she  spied,  she  knelt  to,  saying,  "  Sire, 
I  bring  to  thee,  through  forest,  moor,  and  mire, 
This  vase  of  water,  and  this  torch  of  fire !  " 

The  wondering  king  upraised  her  from  her  knees, 
Received  her  gifts,  and  asked,  "  Why  bring  you 
these  ?  " 

"  My  liege,"  she  answered,  "  at  the  dead  of  night, 

There  came  an  angel,  clad  in  shining  white, 

192 


THE  MYSTIC  MESSAGE.  193 

Who  called  to  me  and  said,  '  O  child  of  grace, 
The  Lord  Christ  grieveth  for  the  human  race, — 
For  He  appeals  to  mortal  men  in  vain 
Except  through  hope  of  bliss,  or  fear  of  bane : 
Why  seek  they  Heaven  ?  For  love  of  God  ?  Not  so  ; 
But  only  for  the  bliss  they  hope  to  gain ! 
Why  shun  they  Hell  ?     For  hate  of  evil  ?     No ; 
But  only  to  escape  the  woe  and  pain ! 
Wherefore,  O  child,  at  the  Lord  Christ's  desire, 
Arise !     He  hath  for  thee  an  errand  !     Go  !— 
Go  with  swift  feet  that  loiter  not,  nor  tire, — 
Go  as  the  wild  hare  runs  through  brake  and  brier,— 
Go  as  the  swallow  speeds  upon  the  wing, — 
Go  bear  two  emblems  to  the  pious  king : 
One,  this  fierce  flambeau  that  shall  hotly  burn, 
And  one,  this  cool,  full,  brimming  water-urn : 
Give  both  into  the  king's  own  mighty  hand : 
Then  bid  him  whirl,  three  times,  the  burning  brand — 
Round,  round,  and  round  his  head — and  let  it  fly 

Straight  at  the  very  zenith  of  the  sky, 
9 


1 94  THE  MYSTIC  MESSAGE. 

To  set  high  heaven  on  fire,  and  burn  it  low, 

Till  all  its  crumbled  walls  with  ashes  glow, 

And  not  a  gate  remain  to  enter  by  ! 

Then  bid  him  from  the  brimming  urn  outpour 

The  water  through  some  crevice  in  earth's  floor, 

Down,  down,  deep  down  into  the  depths  of  hell, 

Whose  fire  these  cooling  drops  shall  quench  and 

quell, 
That  those  eternal  flames  may  blaze  no  more ! ' 


"  This  do,  O  king,  at  the  Lord  Christ's  behest, 
Till  round  the  rolling  earth,  from  east  to  west, 
Shall  neither  Heaven  nor  Hell  by  man  be  known, 
But  God  be  worshipped  for  Himself  alone  !  " 


Her  errand  done, — with  sudden  leap  and  bound 
The  virgin  vanished  out  of  sight  and  sound ! 


THE  MYSTIC  MESSAGE.  195 

This  tale  in  olden  chronicles  is  found  ; 
And  if  the  maid  was  daft  (as  there  is  writ) 
Much  wisdom  often  lies  in  little  wit. 


SIR    MARMADUKE'S   MUSINGS. 

I. 

I  WON  a  noble  fame ; 

But,  with  a  sudden  frown, 
The  people  snatched  my  crown, 
And,  in  the  mire,  trod  down 

My  lofty  name. 

II. 

I  bore  a  bounteous  purse ; 
And  beggars  by  the  way 
Then  blessed  me,  day  by  day ; 
But  I,  grown  poor  as  they, 

Have  now  their  curse. 


MARMADUKE'S  MUSINGS.  197 

III. 

I  gained  what  men  call  friends ; 
But  now  their  love  is  hate, 
And  I  have  learned,  too  late, 
How  mated  minds  unmate, 

And  friendship  ends. 

IV. 

I  clasped  a  woman's  breast, — 

As  if  her  heart,  I  knew, 

Or  fancied,  would  be  true, — 

Who  proved,  alas!  she  too  ! 
False  like  the  rest. 

v. 

I  now  am  all  bereft, — 

As  when  some  tower  doth  fall, 
With  battlement,  and  wall, 
And  gate,  and  bridge,  and  all, — 

And  nothing  left. 


1 98  SJR  MARMADUKE'S  MUSINGS. 

VI. 

But  I  account  it  worth 

All  pangs  of  fair  hopes  crossed- 
All  loves  and  honors  lost, — 
To  gain  the  heavens,  at  cost 

Of  losing  earth. 

VII. 

So,  lest  I  be  inclined 

To  render  ill  for  ill, — 
Henceforth  in  me  instil, 
O  God,  a  sweet  good  will 

To  all  mankind. 


SHIPWRECK. 

A  LOVER'S  bosom  is  a  billowy  deep, 

Whereon  the  breath  of  doubt,  the  gust  of  pride, 

The  storm  of  tears  so  often  rudely  sweep 

That  halcyon  peace  doth  seldom  there  abide ; 
For  suddenly  the  purple  sails,  spread  wide, 

Of  shallops  laden  with  the  heart's  whole  gain, 

Are  struck  of  tempest  in  the  middle  main, 
And  silver  masts  are  split,  and  silken  ropes 

Are  sundered, — yea,  and  many  an  anchor  chain, 
Deemed  adamant,  is  snapped, — until,  at  last, 
Down  fathomless  go  freights  of  foundering  hopes, 
All  sunk  in  dismal  caverns,  deep  and  vast, — 

Whence,  ever  upward  to  a  barren  shore, 

Sad  tides  cast  wrecks  of  memories, — nothing  more  ! 

199 


SERENADE. 


OPEN  thy  casement,  and  list  to  my  lute ! 
Its  music,  O  lady,  is  vain — 
And  better  by  far  were  mute — 
Unless  thou  wilt  hear  the  strain. 


II. 

Peep  through  thy  lattice,  and  show  me  thy  face ! 
For  shortly  the  setting  moon 
Will  shadow  thy  beauty's  grace — 

So,  show  it,  fair  lady,  soon ! 

200 


SERENADE.  20 1 

III. 

Down  from  thy  balcony  fling  me  a  rope ! 
I  linger,  I  long,  I  wait, 
With  love  and  a  lover's  hope, 
For  love  and  a  lover's  fate. 


THE  TWO  ROADS. 

IT  was  the  parting  of  the  ways : 
I  chose  the  left — a  flowery  maze, 
When,  all  at  once,  before  my  sight, 
A  stranger  pointed  to  the  right. 

Was  it  a  warning  that  he  meant  ? 
I  heeded  not,  but  on  I  went, 
And  journeyed  gayly,  half  the  morn, 
Until  I  trod  upon  a  thorn. 

Its  dagger  pierced  me  to  the  quick, 
And  drops  of  blood  came  fast  and  thick 
I  dried  them  with  a  balsam-flower, 

And  sat  and  suffered  for  an  hour. 

202 


THE   TWO  ROADS.  203 

Then  up  I  leaped,  and  onward  strode, 
Still  keeping  to  the  self-same  road,— 
Through  roses  blowing  or  full-blown, — 
And  dashed  my  foot  against  a  stone. 

I  slipped,  I  fainted,  and  I  fell,— 
And  lay — how  long  I  cannot  tell — 
Till,  waking  with  bewildered  look, 
I  spied  a  purling  wayside  brook, 
Wherein  I  bathed  my  throbbing  sore,— 
And  started  on  my  way  once  more. 
Then,  through  a  shady  sylvan  scene, 
Turfed  softly  with  a  tender  green, 
I  strayed  awhile — until,  alas  ! 
A  serpent  stung  me  in  the  grass  ! 

With  sudden  horror,  pain,  and  dread 
I  turned  me  from  the  spot  and  fled, 
And  all  my  wayward  steps  retraced 
Until  I  reached,  with  panting  haste, 


204  THE  TWO  ROADS- 

The  primal  parting  of  the  ways ; 
Where,  once  again,  to  my  amaze, 
I  saw  the  self-same  stranger  stand, 
Still  pointing  with  his  steadfast  hand ; 
Who  said,  "  How  woeful  is  the  plight 
Of  feet  that  stray,  though  guided  right ! 
If  on  this  road  thou  travel  more, 
Note  all  the  pointings — they  are  four : 
The  first,  my  hand — so  plain  to  see 
That  if  to  this  thou  givest  heed, 
The  other  three  thou  shalt  not  need : 
If  this  be  spurned, — the  other  three, — 
Thorn,  flint,  and  sting ! — shall  point  for  thee ! " 


EXPIATION. 

FAIR  lady,  if  the  asp  on  Egypt's  breast, 

That  stung  the  sad  queen  to  her  welcome  death,— 

If  that  unheeding  worm  had  only  guessed 

Whose  heart  it  was  he  gnawed  with  such  a  zest,— 

What  royal  bosom  yielded  him  its  breath, — 

He  would  have  stung  his  venomed  self  instead, 

As  other  serpents  do  :  and  so  will  I  ! 

For  since,  O  queenlier  queen,  since  thou  hast  said 

That  I  have  wound  my  serpentining  way 

To  thy  imperial  heart,  to  sting  and  slay,— 

I  make  to  thy  reproaches  this  reply : 

Not  thou,  my  queen,  but  I,  thy  worm,  shall  die ! 

I  spare  the  bosom  where  I  lay  my  head  ! 

Farewell !     Live  thou  ! — for  I,  self-stung,  am  dead ! 

205 


THE  TRYSTING-PLACE. 

i. 

WHILE  they  lingered,  he  and  she, 
Underneath  their  linden  tree,— 
Twilight  fell  on  land  and  sea. 

II. 

Trembling,  as  the  color  fled 
Swiftly  from  her  lips  of  red, — 
"  Kiss  me  not  again  !  "  she  said. 

III. 

He,  unheedful  of  her  prayer, 
Kissed  her  madly,  then  and  there, — 

Lips,  and  cheeks,  and  brow,  and  hair ! 

206 


THE  TRYSTING-PLACE.  207 

IV. 

"  Let  me  go,"  cried  she,  "  I  pray — 
Ij:  is  late — I  dare  not  stay  !  " 
With  a  leap  she  sprang  away ! 

v. 

With  a  swifter  leap  sprang  he — 

Caught  her — clasped  her — bent  his  knee — 

Vowed  his  vow — and  plead  his  plea  ! 

VI. 

Did  she  frown  and  answer  nay? 
Did  she  smile  and  whisper  yea? 
Not  a  word  had  she  to  say ! 

VII. 

But  a  maid  who  sinks  to  rest 
Mutely  on  her  lover's  breast 
Leaves  her  answer  to  be  guessed. 


208  THE   TRYSTING-PLACE. 

VIII. 

Never  fell  the  evening  dew, 
Since  in  Eden  love  was  new, 
On  a  love  more  pure  and  true. 

IX. 

When  those  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 
Went  from  where  those  lindens  stand, 
Morning  dawned  on  sea  and  land. 


THE   FRENCH    LESSON. 

i. 

SHALL  I  teach  you  French,  my  dear  ? 
Sit  and  con  your  lesson  here : 
What  did  Adam  say  to  Eve  ? 
A  imer,  aimer,  ah  !  cest  vivre  ! 


II. 

Don't  roll  out  the  last  word  long — 
Make  it  short  to  suit  the  song — 
Rhyme  it  to  your  flowing  sleeve ! — 

Aimer,  aimer,  ah  !  cest  vivre ! 

209 


210  THE  FRENCH  LESSON. 

III. 

Sleeve  is  used  in  France  for  arm — 
Arm,  for  waist — so  would  it  harm 
Just  to  clasp  you  ? — by  your  leave  ?- 
Aimer,  aimer,  ah  !  cest  vivre  / 


IV. 

Speaking  French  is  full  of  slips — 
Do  as  /  do  with  the  lips : 
Here's  the  method,  you  perceive  !- 
Aimer,  aimer,  ah !  cest  vivre ! 


V. 

Pretty  pupil,  when  you  say 
All  this  French  to  me  to-day, 
Do  you  mean  it,  or  deceive? — 
A imer,  aimer,  ah !  cest  vivre ! 


THE  FRENCH  LESSON.  2\l 

VI. 

Aimer,  that's  to  love,  you  know ! 
Say  it  to  me  soft  and  low ! 
Make  me  feel  that  you  believe 
A  inter,  aimer,  ah  !  cest  vivre  ! 


VII. 

For  in  France,  you  understand, 
When  they  press  each  other's  hand, 
Then  their  hearts  together  cleave  ! — 
A imer,  aimer,  ah  !  cest  vivre ! 


VIII. 

Bride  of  beauty,  in  your  hair 
You  shall  orange-blossoms  wear ! 
When  shall  I  the  garland  weave  ? 
Aimer,  aimer,  ah  !  cest  vivre ! 


212  THE  FRENCH  LESSON. 

IX. 

Sweetheart,  do  not  rise  to  go — 
Sit  and  let  me  hold  you  so ! 
Adam  did  the  same  to  Eve ! — 
A  inter •,  aimer,  ah  !  cest  vivre  ! 


THE   GOATHERD'S   GIFT. 

To  thce,  fair  Shepherdess,  I  bring  this  rose, — 
This  red  and  fiery  flower  of  love,  that  grows 
For  all  true  lovers,  and  is  love's  own  sign 
Whereby  whoever  gives  or  takes  it  knows 

That  both  their  hearts  are  one, — like  mine  and 

thine. 
I  say,  like  mine  and  thine:     Do  I  presume? 

Or  am  I  over-bold  ?     O  maiden  mine, — 
If    mine   thou    art,    then   wear    my   rose, — whose 

bloom, 
(That  borrows  thine),  is  love's  own  type  ! — Behold  ! 

Though  rains,  and  storms,  and  tempests  manifold 

213 


214  THE   GOATHERD'S  GIFT. 

With   all   their   floods   this   burning   flower  have 

drenched, 
Yet  all  their  many  waters  have  not  quenched 

Its  ever-quenchless  fire, — like  love's  own  flame ! 

So  take  my  rose, — and  find  my  love  the  same ! 


THE    FORLORN    HOPE. 

I. 

OUT  of  twenty  in  the  fray, 
That  morn, — 
To  their  burial  ten,  that  night, 

Were  borne ; 
And  their  faces,  toward  the  moon, 

Looked  pale,— 
And  the  night-wind  murmured  forth 

Its  wail ! 
"  We  are  beaten — we  are  flying— 

We  are  wounded — we  are  dying 

Yet  we  cannot  leave  them  lying 

With  no  word  of  blessing  said  !  " 
215 


2l6  THE  FORLORN  HOPE. 

So,  the  soldiers  all  complying, 

Then  the  Sergeant  bared  his  head, 
And  he  read  the  holy  service 
For  the  burial  of  the  dead. 


II. 

"  Is  there  any  other  prayer 

To  pray  ? 
Is  there  any  other  word 

To  say  ? 
Is  there  any  other  sod 

To  bring  ? 
Is  there  any  other  flower 

To  fling  ? 

"  We  must  do  it  now,  or  never ! 
For  at  midnight  we  must  sever- 
We  must  scatter— and  endeavor 
Each  to  flee  a  separate  way ! 


THE  FORLORN  HOPE.  2I? 

Since  the  dead  are  safe  forever, 

Save  yourselves,  if  so  ye  may !  " 
And  they  left  their  buried  comrades, 
And  escaped  ere  break  of  day. 

10 


THE   DEAD   POET.* 

Is  this  the  only  tribute  we  should  pay? — 

These  funeral  flowers  that  on  his  bier  belong? 
Himself  a  singer,  he  deserves  a  song ; 

But  who  has  any  heart  to  sing  to-day  ? 

Should  any  stranger  chance  to  come  this  way, 
And  view  with  tearless  eyes  this  lump  of  earth, 
And  call  for  witness  to  its  living  worth, 

Our  grief  would  choke  the  words  that  we  would 

say! 
Let  us  be  silent — like  our  silent  dead  ; 

Whose   virtues, — Truth,    Faith,    Honor,    and   the 
rest,— 

*  The  above  lines  were  written  on  the  occasion  of  the  funeral  of 

William  Henry  Burleigh. 

218 


THE  DEAD  POET.  2I9 

With  one  loud-chanted  requiem,  all  have  said : 
"  Behold,  our  chosen  dwelling  was  his  breast !  " 
Since  tongues  like  these  have  spoken,  dumb  be 

ours  : 
So  let  us  sweetly  leave  him  with  his  flowers. 


THE  TWO   LADDERS. 

BENIGHTED  in  my  pilgrimage, — alone, — 

And    footsore — (for   the   path  to  Heaven  grew 
steep,)— 

I  looked  for  Jacob's  pillow  of  a  stone, 
In  hope  of  Jacob's  vision  in  my  sleep. 

Then,  in  my  dream,  whereof  I  quake  to  tell,— 
Not    up   from   earth    to    Heaven,   but,   O    sad 
sight ! 

The  ladder  was  let  down  from  earth  to  hell ! — 
Whereon,  ascending  from  the  deep  abyss, 
Came  fiery  spirits  who,  with  dismal  hiss, 

Made  woeful  clamor  of  their  lost  delight, 

And  stung  my  eyelids  open,  till,  in  fright, 

220 


THE   TIVO  LADDERS.  221 

I  caught  my  staff,  and  at  the  dead  of  night, 

I,  who  toward  Heaven  and  peace  had  halted  so, 
Was  fleet  of  foot  to  flee  from  Hell  and  woe ! 


ASTRAY. 

I  TRAVELED  a  forbidden  road, 
Which  first  appeared  so  flowery  fair 
That  onward  eagerly  I  strode 
Till, — to  my  horror  and  despair  ! — 
All  buds  and  blossoms,  blooming  there, 
All  tender  boughs  and  twigs  of  green 
Stood  changed  to  burrs  and  nettles  keen, — 
Whose  angry  points  my  garments  tore, 
And  pricked  my  hands  till  they  were  sore. 

Bewildered  at  the  wondrous  change, 
That  should  have  warned  me  from  the  place, 
I  kept  my  course  with  swifter  pace, 
And  saw  a  marvel  still  more  strange ; 

222 


ASTRA  Y.  223 

For  cruel  flints  sprang  through  the  ground 

To  meet  my  feet  at  every  bound, 

With  gash  on  gash  that  made  them  bleed. 

Then  time  it  was  that  I  should  heed ! 

Just  at  the  moment  of  my  need, 
A  shining  man  stood  at  my  side, — 
Whose  lustre  fell  on  all  around, 
And  spread  a  glory  far  and  wide ! 

"  And  who  art  thou  ?  "  I  trembling  cried. 
"  Give  ear,"  said  he,  "  to  what  I  say : 
I  am  the  guide  of  all  who  stray, 
To  point  them  back  to  virtue's  path, — 
The  guardian  of  thy  erring  way ; 
And,  step  by  step, — in  love,  not  wrath, — 
These  angry  flints  and  briers  I  strew, 
To  warn  thy  feet  from  wandering  so." 


224  ASTRA  Y. 

I  knelt  and  kissed  his  garment's  hem, 
And  cried,  "  O  angel,  sent  from  Heaven ! 
Make  sharper  yet  each  thorny  stem  ! 
Increase  the  flints  to  seven  times  seven  ! — 
Fulfil  thy  purpose  in  my  pain— 
I  will  endure,  and  not  complain  ! " 

He  fled  ! — and  I,  with  deep  remorse, 
Turned  back  from  my  forbidden  course, — 
But,  O  how  many  weary  hours 
I  traveled  ere  those  blighted  bowers 
Re-bloomed  with  all  their  former  flowers ! 


THE   KING'S   COURAGE. 


I. 

KING  DIONYSIUS  reigned  in  Syracuse, 
As  ancient  chroniclers  have  curtly  told, 

Who  mention  also  that  his  life  was  loose, 
Till  his  transgressions  grew  so  manifold 
That  Plato,  the  philosopher,  made  bold 

To  tell  him,  at  the  risk  of  being  rude, 

That  kings,  through  luxury,  lose  fortitude ! 
But  the  philosopher,  though  wise,  was  wrong 
The  royal  reveler  did  a  deed,  ere  long, 

The  bravest  ever  sung  by  poet's  song. 
10*  225 


226  THE  KING'S   COURAGE. 

II. 

For  where  there  is  a  will,  there  is  a  way ; 

At  least,  if  that  old  proverb  tells  the  truth : 
So  Dionysius  fixed  his  wedding-day, 

And  cried,  "  A  lack  of  fortitude,  forsooth  ! 

Does  Plato  take  me  for  a  limpid  youth  ? 
O  great  philosopher,  thou  art  a  dunce ! " 
The  King — who  loved  two  women — both  at  once — 

Stood  up  between  them — one  on  either  side — 

And  marrying  both,  endured  each  jealous  bride, 

And  lived,  a  hero,  after  Plato  died ! 


FABELLA. 

THE  high  heavens  listened  to  the  earth 
To  hear  its  sounds  and  note  their  worth. 
A  lark  trilled  forth  his  roundelay 
Just  as  an  ass  began  to  bray. 
Each  hushed  his  own  astonished  throat, 
Bewildered  at  the  other's  note. 
The  scornful  bird  said  to  the  brute, 
"  Thou  pipest  on  a  wheezy  flute." 
The  brute  replied,  "  Thou  hast,  O  bird, 
The  sweetest  note  I  ever  heard." 
This  colloquy  reached  to  the  ears 
Of  all  the  listening  upper  spheres. 
When  next  the  lark  sang  in  the  sky, 

He  heard  a  voice  say  from  on  high : 

227 


228  FABELLA. 

11  Think  not  thy  haughty  notes  surpass 
The  modest  matins  of  the  ass : 
The  high  heavens  love  a  lowly  mind,— 
In  bird,  in  beast,  in  human  kind." 


TRANSLATIONS. 


SIR    OLAF. 

FROM   THE   GERMAN   OF   HEINE. 
(  Translated  in  the  original  metres.} 

I. 

AT  the  door  of  the  cathedral 
Stand  two  men  together,  waiting ; 
Both  are  clad  in  scarlet  raiment ; 
One  the  king,  and  one  the  headsmaa 

And  the  king  saith  to  the  headsman, 
"  From  the  psalm  the  priests  are  singing, 
Now  methinks  the  marriage  ended  ; 

—Headsman,  hold  thy  good  axe  ready !  " 

231 


232  577?   OLAF. 

Clang  of  bells,  and  peal  of  organ! 
Forth  the  folk  stream  from  the  temple : 
Motley  is  the  throng,— and,  midway, 
Come  the  bridal-pair,  bejeweled. 

Pale,  and  full  of  fear  and  sorrow 
Looks  the  king's  all-beauteous  daughter; 
Bluff  and  blithesome  looks  Sir  Olaf,— 
And  his  red  mouth,  it  is  smiling  ! 

And  with  smiling  red  mouth,  saith  he 
To  the  king,  who  standeth  scowling, 
"Sire,  thy  son  bids  thee  good  morning! 
Thou,  this  day,  my  head  requirest: 

"  I,  this  day,  must  die !     O  let  me 
Live  the  day  through  till  the  midnight, 
That  my  nuptials  I  may  honor 
With  a  wedding-feast  and  torch-dance ! 


S/A*    OLAF.  233 

"  Let  me,  let  me  live,  I  pray  thee, 
Till  the  last  cup  shall  be  emptied— 
Till  the  last  dance  shall  be  finished  !— 
Let  me  live  until  the  midnight! " 

And  the  king  saith  to  the  headsman, 
"  To  our  son  we  grant  a  respite — 
Let  him  live  until  the  midnight! 
—Headsman,  hold  thy  good  axe  ready!  " 

II. 

Sir  Olaf  at  the  festive  board 
Drains  the  last  flagon  that  is  poured ; 
Close  clingeth  to  his  side 
His  sobbing  bride ! 
—Before  the  door  stands  the  headsman ! 

The  waltz  begins ;  and  Sir  Olaf  the  waist 
Of  his    young    wife    clasps,   and    away — in   wild 
haste — 


234  SfJR    OLAF. 

They  whirl  to  the  glitter  and  glance 

Of  the  last  torch-dance  ! 

— Before  the  door  stands  the  headsman ! 

The  blare  of  the  trumpets  is  loud  and  glad  ; 
The  sigh  of  the  flutes  is  soft  and  sad ; 
Each  guest,  beholding  the  dancing  twain, 
Feels  a  shiver  of  pain. 
— Before  the  door  stands  the  headsman ! 

And  while  they  dance  in  the  echoing  room, 

To  the  ear  of  the  bride  thus  whispers  the  groom, 

"  How  dearly  I  love  thee  can  never  be  told — 

The  grave  is  so  cold  !" 

— Before  the  door  stands  the  headsman ! 

III. 

Sir  Olaf,  it  is  noon  of  night ! 
Thy  life  has  rilled  its  measure : 
Thou  with  the  daughter  of  a  prince 
Hast  had  unhallowed  pleasure! 


SfA   OLAF.  235 

The  monks,  with  murmuring  voice,  begin 
The  prayer  for  the  dead's  redeeming ; 
The  man  in  red,  on  a  scaffold  black, 
Stands  with  his  white  axe  gleaming. 

Sir  Olaf  strides  to  the  castle-yard  : 
The  lights  and  the  swords  shine  brightly; 
The  red  mouth  of  the  knight,  it  smiles  !— 
And  he  crieth  gayly  and  lightly : 

"  I  bless  the  sun,  I  bless  the  moon, 
And  the  stars  that  in  heaven  glitter ; 
And  I  also  bless  the  little  birds 
That  in  the  tree-tops  twitter. 

"  I  bless  the  sea,  I  bless  the  land, 
And  the  dewy  meads  of  clover ; 
I  bless  the  violets, — mild  as  the  eyes 
Of  my  darling  to  her  lover!— 


236  SIR    OLAF. 

"  Those  violet  eyes  of  thine,  my  wife, 
Now  sending  my  soul  to  heaven  ! — 
And  I  also  bless  the  lilac-tree 
Where  thou  to  my  arms  wert  given ! " 


SECRET    AFFINITIES. 

FROM  THE   FRENCH   OF   THEOPHILE   GAUTIER. 

IN  Athens,  in  a  wall  on  high, 
For  centuries  against  the  sky, 
Twin  marble  blocks  together  gleamed, 
Together  slept,  together  dreamed. 

The  sea,  whose  tears  for  Venus  fell, 
Wrought  of  those  tears,  within  a  shell, 
Two  pearls  that  lay  together  prest, 
And  each  to  each  their  love  confest. 

In  Boabdilla's  gardens  fair, 

Where  fountains  cooled  the  summer  air, 

237 


238  SECRET  AFFINITIES. 

Two  roses,  blooming  on  one  bough, 
Made  each  to  each  a  lover's  vow. 

In  Venice,  on  an  eve  in  May, 

Two  doves  with  white  wings  took  their  way 

To  one  high  nest  within  a  dome, 

Where  love  and  they  had  built  their  home. 

But  pearl,  dove,  rose,  and  marble — all 
Beneath  one  common  fate  did  fall ; 
For  pearl  must  melt,  rose  fade,  dove  die, 
And  marble  crumble  by  and  by. 

But  back  to  Nature's  stock  and  store 
Their  dainty  dust  was  flung  once  more, 
And  through  her  crucible  was  passed 
And  into  fairer  mouldings  cast. 

w 

So  wide  her  alchemy  did  range, 
The  marble  into  life  did  change  ; 
The  roses,  that  had  died  apace, 
Did  bloom  again  in  woman's  face ; 


SECRET  AFFINITIES.  239 

The  doves,  that  fluttered  once,  do  still 
True  lovers'  hearts  with  flutterings  fill ; 
The  pearls,  once  by  the  waves  concealed, 
Are  now  by  maiden  mouths  revealed. 

By  this  strange  alchemy,  whose  worth 
More  precious  is  than  all  the  earth, 
Two  souls,  without  the  need  of  speech, 
Are  sure  that  each  is  knit  to  each. 

A  sudden  beam  of  sunshine  falls, 
A  sudden  whiff  of  fragrance  calls, 
And  by  this  sign  true  hearts,  from  far, 
Like  bees,  meet  where  their  gardens  are. 

Then  all  past  whisperings  in  the  ear, 
Whether  beside  the  fountain  clear — 
Beneath  the  wave — or  in  the  wall, — 
The  heart  that  listens  hears  them  all. 


240  SECRET  AFFINITIES. 

The  doves,  that  part,  shall  not  forget 
The  golden  dome  where  first  they  met ; 
For  love,  the  first  of  Heaven's  great  laws, 
All  severed  souls  together  draws. 

And  love,  outgrown,  a  new  life  finds, 
And  to  the  past  the  present  binds ; 
And  so,  in  lips  of  living  red, 
Awakes  the  rose  that  once  was  dead ; 

And  so  the  laugh  of  some  fair  girl 
Unvails  the  long-sequestered  pearl ; 
And  so  her  forehead  in  the  light 
Reveals  the  marble  grown  more  white ; 

And  so  the  lover  tells  his  love 
Once  more  with  cooings  like  the  dove ; — 
And  so  the  whole  of  love's  sweet  lore 
Repeats  the  tale  of  loves  before. 


SECRET  AFFINITIES.  241 

Fair  maid,  before  whose  feet  I  fall, 
What  memories  dear  canst  thou  recall  ? 
In  some  dim  past  did  we  not  meet 
As  dove,  or  pearl,  or  rosebud  sweet  ? 


u 


PYRRHA. 

FROM   THE  LATIN   OF   HORACE.* 
(A 


WHAT  youth,  with  roses  round  his  brow, 
And  sweetly-scented  drops  bedewed, 
Makes  love  to  thee,  O  Pyrrha,  now, 
Within  thy  shady  solitude  ? 

What  victim  is  it  to  ensnare 

That  thou  dost  bind  thy  yellow  hair 

In  braids  so  simple  yet  so  fair  ? 

The  fool,  whoever  he  may  be, 
Who  sets  his  silly  heart  on  thee, 

*  Lib.  I.,  Car.  5. 

242 


PYRRHA.  243 

Shall  find  that  never  wooer  wooed 

A  maid  of  such  a  fickle  mood ; 

For  thou  art  changeful  as  the  skies : 

At  first,  he  sees  them  azure-hued, 

But  then,  before  he  is  aware, 

The  elements  are  all  at  feud, — 

Wild  mists  and  flying  fogs  arise, — 

A  tempest  suddenly  is  brewed, 

And  thunder  hurtles  through  the  air  ! — 

While  he,  fond  wretch,  stands  shivering  there, 

With  hopes  storm-pelted  and  subdued, 

And  nothing  left  him  but  despair ! 

O  luckless  is  the  love-sick  wight 

Who  trusts  the  troth  which  thou  dost  plight, 

And  whom  thou  flatterest  to  delude ! 

No  sooner  hath  he  knelt  and  sued, 

And  found  thee  gentle  for  a  day, 

Than  he  goes  credulous  away, 

Till,  with  the  next  returning  morn, 


244  PYRRHA. 

He  hies  him  back  to  find  thee  rude, 
And  full  of  woman's  wrath,  and  scorn, 
And  boisterous  as  when  Capricorn 
Roars  through  his  stormiest  latitude  ! 

I  too  thy  sunny  smiles  have  viewed  ; 
I  too  have  seen  thy  lightnings  flash ; 
I  too  have  heard  thy  thunders  crash  ; 
I  too  have  felt  thy  wild  waves  dash ; 
But  I,  (more  blest  by  fate  than  he !) — 
From  out  the  depth  of  that  deep  sea 
Came  safe  (yet  dripping)  from  the  main,- 
To  hang,  in  Neptune's  sacred  fane, 
My  votive  offering  on  the  wall, — 
With  thanks  that  I  escaped  at  all ! 


THE  KING  OF  THULE. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  GOETHE. 
I. 

THERE  was  a  king  in  Thule", 
Who  loved,  with  all  his  soul, 

His  leman  who,  in  dying, 
Gave  him  a  golden  bowl. 

II. 

Beyond  all  other  treasures 

This  goblet  did  he  prize, — 
And  when  at  feasts  he  filled  it, 

The  tears  swam  in  his  eyes. 

245 


246  THE  KING    OF  THULE. 

III. 

Then,  feeling  death  approaching, 
His  towns  he  counted  up, 

And  gave  his  heir  the  kingdom — 
But  not  the  golden  cup ! 


IV. 

He  made  a  feast  right  royal, 
And  with  his  knights  sat  he,- 

In  the  high  hall  of  his  fathers, 
In  the  Castle  by  the  Sea. 


V. 

There  drank  the  old  carouser 
His  last  draught,  red  as  blood, 

And  then  the  hallowed  flagon 
Flung  down  into  the  flood. 


THE  KL\G    OF  THUL&.  247 

VI. 

He  watched  it  plunge,  and  settle, 

And  sink  deep  in  the  sea,— 
And  with  it  sank  his  eyelids, 

And  never  more  drank  he ' 


FINALE. 

Here,  little  book,  thou  contest  to  an  end ; 

Yet,  ere  thou  sayst  farewell,  add  one  more  rhyme ; 

For  since  tltese  Northern  gales  of  autumn-time, — 

That  shrivel  otJier  leaves, — -perchance  portend 

Like  fate  for  thee  (though  this  may  Heaven  for  fend!} 

Fly  with  these  winds — which,  in  their  antique  prime, 

First  wafted  Odins  runes  from  clime  to  clime — 

A  nd  let  thy  flying  leaves  their  rustlings  blend, 

For  one  brief  moment,  with  that  anthem  vast 

Whose  rhythm  eternal  tunes  the  thunder  s  blast, 

The  linnet's  warble,  and  the  lover  s  sigh  ! 

Nor  grieve  if  then  thy  fleeting  hour  be  past. 

The  bards  are  one,  the  lowly  and  the  Jiigh  ! 

That  thou  wert  of  them,  be  content  and  die  ! 


248 


APPENDIX 


NOTES. 


THOU  AND   I. 

"Arcadia,  whereof  poets  fell."     p.  8. 

THE  original  and  real  Arcadia  (that  is,  the  central  region 
of  the  Peloponnesus)  is  far  from  justifying  the  ideal  char 
acter  with  which  the  Roman  poets  and  their  successors  have 
always  invested  it ;  for  it  neither  was,  nor  is,  a  paradise  of 
shepherds,— except  in  imagination.  Instead  of  a  region  of 
lush  meadows  and  blooming  pasturage,  Mitford  calls  it  "  a 
cluster  of  mountains;  "  Grote  says,  "  it  was  high  and  bleak, 
full  of  wild  mountain,  rock,  and  forest;"  and  modern  tourists 
familiarly  style  it  "  the  Switzerland  of  Greece."  But,  how 
ever  warlike  or  mercenary  may  have  been  the  Arcadians  of 

Strabo's  day,— and  however  wild  and  desolate  their  country 

251 


252  APPENDIX. 

is  now, — nevertheless  the  poetic  fancy  of  the  world  will 
probably  always  cherish  Arcadia  as  the  spot  where  Hermes 
invented  the  lyre ;  where  Pan  gave  to  the  shepherds  their 
syrinx,  or  pipe  ;  and  where  a  pastoral  and  musical  people  are 
forever  chanting  of  love  and  peace. 


*'  Like  sorrowing  Clite"     p.  10. 

Clite,  a  daughter  of  the  sea,  was  in  love  with  Apollo, 
god  of  the  sun;  but  as  the  god's  affections  were  bestowed 
elsewhere,  the  disappointed  maiden  yearned  after  him  with 
hopeless  grief;  and  she  is  symbolized  by  the  sunflower, 
whose  face  follows  the  sun  across  the  sky. 


' '  Or  jealous  A  mphitrite'. "     p.  I  o. 

Amphitrite,  wife  of  Neptune,  grew  jealous  of  her  hus 
band's  love  for  Scylla,  and,  to  revenge  herself  on  her  rival, 
threw  a  handful  of  magic  herbs  into  the  fountain  wherein 
Scylla  bathed, — which  fretted  the  water,  and  transformed 
the  beautiful  and  offending  bather  into  a  monster. 


"  That  wild  herb  of  Trebizond"     p.  12. 
Fabled  of  the  Persian  rhododendron. 


NOTES.  253 

"  Nor  grows  that  gloomy  tree  of  woe, 
That  fatal  mistletoe,  etc. 

#  *  *  #  # 

— as  when  Edda's  bard 
Saw  every  pebbU  weep  for  Balder  slain"    p.  13. 

In  the  Scandinavian  mythology,  Balder  (who  is  somewhat 
analogous  to  the  Greek  Apollo)  was  the  god  of  sunshine  and 
summer.  His  mother,  to  preserve  his  life  against  all  pos 
sible  enemies,  exacted  from  all  things  in  Nature,  both  ani 
mate  and  inanimate,  an  oath  that  he  should  receive  no  harm 
from  any  source  whatever — whether  from  fire,  water,  beast, 
bird,  stone,  or  bush.  All  these  took  the  oath,  except  only 
the  mistletoe — a  plant  which  was  accidentally  overlooked. 
When  nothing  (as  was  supposed)  could  hurt  Balder,  it 
became  a  favorite  amusement  of  the  gods  to  hurl  various 
of  these  oath-bound  missiles  at  their  smiling  favorite,  in 
order  to  see  them  fall  harmlessly  at  his  feet.  In  the  midst 
of  this  pastime,  Loki  (or  the  Spirit  of  Evil)  plucked  up  a 
mistletoe-tree,  and  carried  it  to  Hoder,  the  god  of  winter, — 
who,  being  blind,  had  not  joined  in  the  sport.  "  Why  do 
you  not  throw  something  at  Balder?"  asked  Loki.  "Be 
cause  I  am  blind  ;  and,  besides,  I  have  nothing  to  throw," 
was  Hoder's  reply.  Loki  then  craftily  put  the  mistletoe 
into  Hoder's  hands,  and  guiding  the  blind  god's  uplifted  arm, 


254 


APPENDIX. 


enabled  him  to  take  straight  aim.  The  fateful  branch 
violently  struck  Balder,  who  fell  dead  at  the  blow. 

After  Balder's  death,  the  Fates  promised  that  if  all  created 
things  would  join  in  weeping  for  his  loss,  he  then  should  be 
restored  to  life  and  the  world.  All  nature  tenderly  complied 
with  this  request, — men,  beasts,  birds,  trees,  and  stones ;  all 
save  one — an  ogress  named  Thok,  who  was  Loki  in  disguise. 

This  universal  lamentation  of  Nature  for  the  loss  of  Bal 
der  is  beautifully  chronicled  in  a  common  expression  in  daily 
use  among  the  Icelanders,  who,  when  the  ground  is  beaded 
with  dew,  say,  "  The  stones  are  weeping  for  Balder's  death." 


"  Nor  font  of  bitter  taste, — 
Like  Marak."    p.  14. 

Exodus  15  : 23. 


"  Nor  bog  Serbonian"     p.  14. 

Plutarch,  in  his  Life  of  Antony,  says  : 
"  The  Serbonian  marsh  (which  the  Egyptians  call  Typhon's 
breathing-hole)  is,  in  all  probability,  water  left  behind  by,  or 


NOTES.  255 

making  its  way  through  from,  the  Red  Sea ;  which  is  here 
[/.  e.,  near  PelusiumJ  divided  from  the  Mediterranean  by  a 
narrow  isthmus." 

Milton,  in  the  second  book  of  Paradise  Lost,  locates  the 
famous  marsh  thus : 

"A  gulf  profound  as  that  Serbonian  bog 
Betwixt  Damiatta  and  Mt.  Casius  old." 


1 '  Nor  vapor  A  cheronian . "     p .  1 4 . 

Acheron,  as  a  river  of  Hades,  may  be  supposed  to  have 
engendered  a  vapor  analogous  to  that  which  Lucretius  as 
signs  to  Lake  Avernus.  Thus,  De  Rcrum  Natura,  lib. 
6,  820  : 

"  The  regions  of  Avernus  send  up,  from  beneath,  a  vapor 
destructive  to  birds — a  vapor  in  such  abundance  as  to  poison 
the  body  of  the  atmosphere." 


' '  Ere  yet  Apollo  ceased  to  rove 
Through  Daphne's  grove"     p.  14. 

The  celebrated  grove  of  Daphne  was  at  Daphne,  near  An- 


256 


APPENDIX. 


tioch  in  Syria,  and  contained  a  magnificent  temple  to  Apollo, 
erected  in  commemoration  of  his  love  for  the  nymph. 


"  Where  Mimir,  every  morn, 

Once  lifted  high  his  dripping  horn."     p.  14. 

The  Prose  Edda  of  the  Icelanders,  in  speaking  of  the  tree 
Ygdrasil,  and  of  Mimir's  Well,  says  : 

"  Under  the  root  that  stretches  out  toward  the  Frost 
Giants,  there  is  Mimir's  Well,  in  which  wisdom  and  wit  lie 
hidden.  The  guardian  of  this  well  is  named  Mimir.  He  is 
full  of  wisdom,  because  he  drinks  the  waters  of  the  well  from 
the  horn  Gyoll,  every  morning." 


"  To  call  the  fairies  from  afar 
To  Candahar"     p.  15. 

The  frequent  mention  of  this  geographical  name,  in  recent 
military  dispatches  from  Afghanistan,  rudely  disturbs  the  old 
association  which  Thevenot  thus  describes :  "  There  is  a 
part  (says  he)  of  Candahar  called  Peria,  or  Fairyland" 


NOTES. 

"  By  Him  who,  when  the  world  was  young, 
Nine  days  upon  Ygdrasil  hung"     p.  16. 


-57 


The  world,  with  all  its  mysteries  of  life,  death,  and  des 
tiny, — in  other  words,  the  whole  problem  which  the  universe 
presents  to  the  mind  of  man, — is  boldly  imaged  by  the  Scan 
dinavian  poets  in  the  form  of  a  gigantic  ash-tree  called 
Ygdrasil ;  whose  roots  strike  down  into  the  lowest  earth, 
and  whose  branches  reach  up  into  the  loftiest  heaven.  On 
this  majestic  tree,  the  god  Odin  (who  ranked  next  after  the 
original  Creator  of  all  things)  voluntarily  hung  for  nine  days, 
— having  first  pierced  himself  with  a  spear,  in  order  that, 
with  sensibilities  thus  keenly  alive,  and  through  sufferings 
thus  painfully  protracted,  he  might  hear  the  secrets  of  nature 
and  learn  their  subtle  meanings.  When  he  had  thus  mas 
tered  this  mystical  lore,  he  re-uttered  it  to  mankind  in  rhyth 
mic  measures  called  runes  :  hence  all  the  sounds  of  nature, 
whether  of  winds,  waters,  birds,  or  insects, — together  also 
with  man's  minstrelsy  of  harp  and  voice,— all  these  various 
cadences  are  but  repetitions  or  re-echoes  of  Odin's  runes. 


"  As  in  Endymion's  dale"     p.  17. 
The  story  of  the  beautiful  youth  Endymion,  who  slept  a 


APPENDIX. 

long  sleep  in  a  secluded  glen  on  the  side  (or  top)  of  Mt. 
Latmos,  where  he  was  watched  over  by  Selene,  has  received 
many  differing  interpretations  ;  but  probably  Endymion  was 
the  sun,  as  Selene  was  certainly  the  moon. 


"  Outgleaming  all  the  pearls  of  Orni, 
Outflashing  all  the  gems  of  Ind. "    p.  1 8. 

The  reader  will  recall  the  opening  lines  of  the  second  book 
of  Paradise  Lost : 

"  High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  or  of  Ind." 


Hermori s  dew-besprinkled  hill "    p.  19. 

Psalm  133 : 3. 


"  Gideoris fleece"    p.  20. 

Judges  6  :  36  et  seq. 


NOTES.  259 

"  Casta/ia's  naiad-haunted  rill"    p.  19. 

Col.  Mure  gives  an  account  of  a  visit  which  he  made  to  the 
site  of  ancient  Delphi,  and  of  the  adjoining  Castalian  spring. 
We  learn  from  him  that  the  town  is  now  called  Castri  ;  and 
the  spring,  the  fountain  of  St.  John.  The  bed  of  the  torrent 
is  in  a  fissure  between  two  rocks.  The  waters  ooze  at  first  in 
a  scarcely  perceptible  streamlet  from  among  loose  stones, 
but  soon  swell  into  a  considerable  brook. 


* '  Helicon's  twin-watered  mount. "    p .  1 9. 

The  two  fountains  on  Mt.  Helicon  were  Aganippe*  and 
Hippocrene*.  They  still  remain.  Leake,  the  explorer,  has 
identified  their  site  as  on  the  east  side  of  the  mountain  and 
near  the  present  church  and  convent  of  St.  Nicholas.  The 
fountains  are  about  two  miles  apart. 


"  As  round,  and  ripe,  and  splendid 

As  those  Iduna  watched  and  tended"     p.  27. 

The  Northman's  goddess  Iduna   personated   the  spring 
time.     During  the  long  Norwegian  winter,  the  gods  (name- 


26o  APPENDIX. 

ly,  the  vital  powers  of  nature)  languished  and  declined  ;  and 
had  it  not  been  for  the  care  with  which  Iduna  (or  the  ever- 
recurring  spring)  revived  and  refreshed  their  wasted  energy, 
they  would  have  perished. 

The  pretty  story  that,  on  one  occasion,  Iduna  and  her 
apples  were  stolen  and  carried  away,  and  that  the  gods  were 
thereby  left  to  grow  wrinkled  and  hoary  until  she  and  her 
fruits  could  be  found  and  brought  back, — is  told  with  great 
vivacity  in  the  national  poetry  of  the  Icelanders.  See  the 
Prose  or  Younger  Edda. 


* '  As  if  they  grew  by  Esc  hoi's  brook"     p.  28. 

The  grapes  of  Eschol  are,  to  this  day,  the  wonder  of  the 
vineyards  of  Palestine.  Dr.  H.  B.  Tristam,  in  the  Natural 
History  of  the  Bible,  says  : 

"  Clusters  weighing  ten  or  twelve  pounds  have  been  gath 
ered.  The  spies  doubtless  bore  the  clusters  between  them  on 
a  staff,  that  the  splendid  grapes  might  not  be  crushed.  With 
care  and  judicious  thinning,  it  is  well  known  that  bunches 
weighing  nearly  twenty  pounds  can  be  produced.  Not  only 
are  the  bunches  remarkable  for  their  weight,  but  the  indi 
vidual  grape  attains  a  size  rarely  reached  elsewhere." 


NOTES.  26 ! 

' '  On  old  Engeddfs  terraced  banks. "     p.  28. 

Canticles  I  :  14. 

Unlike  the  vineyards  of  Eschol,  those  of  Engeddi  are  now 
extinct;  but  many  of  the  terraces  still  remain. 


s  wine-press,  flowing  still,     p.  28. 

The  ancient  richness  of  Judea,  in  the  production  of  wine, 
is  attested  in  Genesis  49,  1 1  : 

"  Binding  his  foal  unto  the  vine,  and  his  ass's  colt  unto  the 
choice  vine;  he  washed  his  garments  in  wine,  and  his  clothes 
in  the  blood  of  grapes." 

And  Dr.  Tristam  says  : 

"Though  Judah  no  longer  maintains  this  ancient  pre- 
emin^e,  yet  where  the  vine  is  cultivated  in  Southern  Judea, 
it  still  surpasses,  both  in  the  size  of  its  grapes,  and  the  quality 
of  its  wine,  the  produce  of  other  parts  of  the  country." 


"  Or  frosty  windjlower  of  the  spring."     p.  28. 
The  white  anemone*. 


262  APPENDIX. 

11  Tk'  Iberian  snow."     p.  28. 

Ancient  Iberia  was  the  region  which  the  Russians  now  call 
Georgia. 

"  As  Medina's  maids  relate."     p.  29. 

It  is  an  oriental  legend  that  when  Adam  and  Eve  were 
expelled  from  Eden,  they  were  allowed  to  carry  with  them 
but  a  single  flower  as  a  souvenir  of  the  Happy  Garden  from 
which  they  were  banished  ;  and  this  flower  was  the  myrtle. 


"  Or  Jove's  white  wing 
When  he,  a  swan,  in  Leda's  arms"  etc.     p.  29. 

Keats,  in  Endymion,  speaks  of 

"  Valley  lilies,  whiter  still 
Than  Leda's  love." 


"  The  holy  Hebrew  tale"     p.  29. 

Genesis  40  et  seq. 


NOTES.  263 

"  Who  holds  the  winds  -within  His  hand."    p.  32. 

Proverbs  30 :  4. 


"  Their  huge  ship  up  the  shore"     p.  42. 

In  Pindar's  fourth  Pythian  ode,  he  says  that  the  Argonauts 
carried  their  ship  on  their  shoulders,  for  twelve  successive 
days,  over  the  desert  sands  of  Libya. 


' '  How  writhingly  were  wrought 
The  twelve  great  toils"     p.  42. 

The  myth  of  Hercules  and  his  twelve  labors  is  interpreted 
by  the  Rev.  G.  W.  Cox  as  follows  : 

"  Heracles  is  the  toiling  sun,  laboring  for  the  benefit  of 
others,  not  his  own,  and  doing  hard  service  for  a  mean  and 
cruel  taskmaster.  *  *  *  His  toils  are  variations  on 
the  story  of  the  great  conflict  which  Indra  wages  against 
Vitra,  the  demon  of  darkness."—  Tales  of  Ancient  Greece. 


"  Of  him  wJio  in  the  viewless  net"     p.  42. 
The  story  of  the  invisible  yet  infrangible  net  which  the 


264  APPENDIX. 

jealous  Vulcan  wrought,  in  order  to  ensnare  in  it  the  unsus 
pecting  lovers,  Mars  and  Venus,— is  told  in  the  eighth  book 
of  the  Odyssey. 


"  Of  him  who  evermore  uprolled 

Th  enchanted  stone  that  slipped  his  hold."     p.  42. 

If  every  story  in  the  Greek  mythology  is  but  a  poetic 
representation  of  some  phenomenon  of  Nature  (as  modern 
criticism  is  more  and  more  vigorously  asserting) — then  the 
repetitious  labors  of  Sisyphus  with  his  stone  may  be  taken 
as  another  of  the  many  pictures  of  the  daily  rising  and 
setting  of  the  sun, — to  rise  and  set  again. 


"How  Jove,  in  wrath,  the  Titans  hurled 
Down-whizzing  to  the  lower  world"     p.  43. 

The  Titanomachia,  or  contest  of  Jupiter  with  the  Titans, 
took  place  in  Thessaly  ; — the  Titans  occupying  Mt.  Orthrys, 
and  Jupiter,  Mt.  Olympus.  The  struggle  lasted  ten  years ; 
at  the  end  of  which  time  the  Titans  were  hurled  into  Tar 
tarus. 


NOTES.  265 

"How  Ossa  was  on  Pelion  fiung"    p.  43. 

In  the  war  between  the  giants  and  the  gods,  the  giants 
piled  Mt.  Ossa  on  Mt.  Pelion,  in  the  vain  hope  thereby  to 
scale  Mt.  Olympus.  In  Holland's  Travels  in  Greece,  he  states 
that  Ossa  and  Pelion,  when  seen  from  the  south,  look  as  if 
one  mountain  rested  upon  the  other.  There  is  an  ancient 
tradition  that  both  mountains  were  originally  one,  and  were 
rent  apart  by  an  earthquake. 


"  How  Arthur's  sword  was  three  times  swung"     p.  43. 

In  the  Idyls  of  the   King,  after  King  Arthur's  sword  Ex- 
cah'bur  was  cast  forth  toward  the  lake, 

"—ere  he  dipped  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt  and  brandished  htm 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 


"  Charlemagne's  battle-brand, — 

Which  he  alone  could  hold, — 

Too  ponderous  for  another's  hand."     p.  43. 

The  legend  that  Charlemagne  bore  a  sword  so  huge  and 
12 


266  APPENDIX. 

heavy  that  no  other  warrior  could  wield  it,  is  somewhat  dwarfed 
of  its  heroic  proportions  by  the  moderate-sized  weapon  now 
exhibited  in  the  Louvre,  purporting  to  have  belonged  to  that 
monarch. 


"  Samson  at  the  gates  "    p.  45. 

Judges  1 6  :  3. 


' '  For  us,  the  almond-tree 
Doth  flourish  now"     p.  49. 

Ecclesiastes  12  :  5. 

The  almond-tree  is  an  emblem  of  old  age  because  (as 
Hasselquist  has  pointed  out)  "the  white  flowers  blossom  on 
the  bare  branches." 


"  Olive,  oak,  or  bay."    p.  49. 

A  crown  of  olive  was  given  to  the  victor  in  the  Olympic 
games  ;  a  crown  of  bay  (that  is,  laurel)  to  the  victor  in  the 


NOTES.  267 

Pythian  ;  and  a  crown  of  oak  to  him  who  saved  the  life  of  a 
Roman  citizen  in  battle. 


Our  threescore  years  and  ten"  etc.     p.  49. 

Psalm  90 :  10. 


44  For  MamrJ's  gloomy  cave, 
To  be  her  grave."     p.  50. 

Genesis  23. 


"Mt.Nebo."    p.  50. 

Deuteronomy  34. 


"  The  King  of  ThuU's  golden  cup.      p.  53. 

See  Margaret's  song  in  Goethe's  Faust,  metrically  trans 
lated  at  page  245  of  this  volume. 


"  GhizeKs  time-defying  graves."    p.  53. 
After  much  controversy,  it  is  now  generally  conceded  that 


268  APPENDIX. 

the  pyramids  were  built  for  royal  tombs  and  monuments. 
Sharpe,  in  his  History  of  Egypt,  speaking  of  Memphis, 
says  : 

"Sixty  or  seventy  pyramids,  of  various  sizes,  on  the  edge 
of  the  desert,  remind  us  of  the  number  and  wealth  of  its 
kings  or  chief  priests,  who  sleep  beneath  them.". 

And,  referring  to  the  custom  of  burying  treasures  within 
the  mummies  of  the  dead,  he  says  : 

"Gold  and  precious  stones  were  often  wrapped  in  the  same 
bandages  with  the  body." 


"  Seen  from  Patmos  by  the  seer"    p.  56. 

The  island  of  Patmos, — to  which  St.  John  was  exiled  by  the 
Roman  government,  and  where,  according  to  a  tradition 
of  the  Church,  he  wrote  the  Apocalypse, — is  one  of  the 
Sporades,  in  the  Greek  Archipelago.  Its  modern  name  is 
Patmo.  Travelers  are  pointed  to  a  spot  on  the  side  of  a  hill, 
not  far  from  a  Greek  monastery,  as  the  place  where  the  seer 
stood  when  he  beheld  the  vision  of  the  Holy  City. 

See  Revelation  21  :  2. 


NOTES. 

"Each  equaling  each, 

II  'hichever  way  the  reed  could  reach. "     p.  5  7. 

The  figure  of  a  cube  seems  to  have  been,  to  the  oriental 
mind,  a  symbol  of  ideal  beauty  in  architecture,— as  is  shown 
not  only  by  St.  John's  description  of  the  proportions  of  the 
Celestial  City,  but  also  by  the  plan  both  of  the  Jewish  taber 
nacle,  and  of  the  Mahommedan  Kauba. 


"  HimmaLiya's  crest"     p.  57. 
Its  height  is  nearly  29,000  feet. 


"  Ileclas  buj  ning pile 

Wkose  smoke  rolls  up  for  many  a  lofty  mile"     p.  57. 

This  volcano  has  been  known  to  throw  up  a  column  of 
ashes  nearly  four  miles  high. 


' '  Tenerifs  cloud-confronting  isle. "     p.  5  7. 
The  peak  of  Tenerif  reaches  to  a  height  of  12,280  feet. 


270  APPENDIX. 

11  The  Five  Cities  of  the  Plain."    p.  58. 

These  were  Sodom,  Gomorrah,  Admah,  Tseboim,  and 
Zoar ;  of  which  the  first  four  were  destroyed,  and  only  the 
last  escaped. 


"  Their  engulphing  main"    p.  58. 

The  opinion  so  long  held,  that  the  Cities  of  the  Plain  were 
swallowed  up  by  the  Dead  Sea,  has  been  re-affirmed  by 
some  modern  travelers,  but  disputed  by  others.  Thus  Ro 
binson  says  that  the  cities  were  submerged  ;  but  Reland 
insists  that  there  is  no  reason,  either  in  Scripture  or  history, 
for  supposing  that  the  cities  were  destroyed  by  submersion, 
or  were  submerged  at  all. 


"  Th'  asphaltic  flood"     p.  58. 

On  the  shores  of  the  Dead  Sea,  bitumen  or  (asphaltum)  is 
found  in  large  quantities.  Mr.  Tristam,  in  his  account  of  a 
visit  there,  says  that  bitumen  is  ejected  from  the  bottom  of 
the  sea — floats  in  great  masses  on  the  surface  of  the  wa 
ter — oozes  through  the  fissures  of  the  rocks — and  is  depos- 


NOTES. 


271 


ited  with  gravel  on  the  beach.     It  is  sometimes  called  Jews* 
pitch. 


"  Upon  whose  banks  tliere  groweth. 

On  eitJicr  side, 

The  Tree  of  Life,  -whose  branches  midway  meet 

To  overarch  the  amber  tide"    p.  59. 

Revelation  22  :  2. 

Dr.  Adam  Clarke,  in  his  Commentary,  says  : 
"  As  this  Tree  of  Life  is  stated  to  be  in  the  streets  of  the 
city,  and  on  each  side  of  the  river,  the  tree  must  here  be  an 
enallage  of  the  singular  for  the  plural  number,  trees  of  life, 
or  trees  which  yielded  fruit  by  which  life  was  preserved.  The 
account  in  Ezekiel  (chap.  47  :  12)  is  this:  'And  by  the  river 
upon  the  bank  thereof,  on  this  side  and  on  that  side,  shall 
grow  all  trees  for  meat,  whose  leaf  shall  not  fade ;  it  shall 
bring  forth  new  fruit  according  to  his  months  ;  and  the  fruit 
thereof  shall  be  for  meat,  and  the  leaf  thereof  for  medicine.'" 


"  That  amaranthine  flower  "     p.  59. 
Milton's  allusion  to  the  amaranth  is  the  following : 


272  APPENDIX. 

"  Immortal  amarant,  a  flower  which  once 

In  Paradise,  fast  by  the  Tree  of  Life, 

Began  to  bloom  ;  but  soon  for  man's  offence 

To  Heaven  removed,  where  first  it  grew,  there  grows, 

And  flowers  aloft,  shading  the  fount  of  life, 

And  where  the  river  of  bliss  through  midst  of  Heaven 

Rolls  o'er  Elysian  flowers  her  amber  stream." 

P.  L.,  book  3,  line  353  et  seq. 

Hume,  in  a  note  on  the  above  passage  from  Milton,  de 
scribes  the  amaranth  as — 

"  A  flower  of  a  purple  velvet  color,  which,  though  gath 
ered,  keeps  its  beauty  ;  and,  when  all  other  flowers  fade, 
recovers  its  lustre  by  being  sprinkled  with  a  little  water,  as 
Pliny  affirms.  Milton  seems  to  have  taken  this  hint  from 
i  Peter  1:4,  '  To  an  inheritance  incorruptible,  undefiled,  and 
\\\a.ifadeth  not  away,'1  (amaranton:}  and  chap.  5  14,  '  Ye  shall 
receive  a  crown  of  glory  that  fadeth  not  away,'  (ama- 
rantinon  .•)  both  relating  to  the  name  of  his  everlasting 
amarant,  which  he  has  finely  set  near  the  tree  of  life.  '  Ama- 
rantus  flos,  symbolwn  est  immortalitatisS — Cleui.  Alex" 


"  As  in  the  parable  is  told."     p.  61. 

St.  Matthew  13  :  46. 


NOTES. 


"  The  gates  shall  not  be  sJntt  by  i/ar, 
AnJ  tture  is  no  night  there"     p.  61. 

Revelation  21  :  25. 


"  The  first,  a  jasper  "     p.  63. 

The  Rev.  William  Latham  Devan,  M.A.,  in  Smith's  Dic 
tionary  of  the  Bible  says  : 

"  The  characteristics  of  this  stone,  as  far  as  they  are  speci 
fied  in  Scripture  (Rev.  21:11)  are  that  it  was  'most  pre 
cious/and  'like  crystal.'  The  stone  which  we  name  jasper 
does  not  accord  with  this  description  :  it  is  an  opaque  species 
of  quartz,  of  a  red,  yellow,  green,  or  mixed  brownish-yellow 
hue,  sometimes  striped  and  sometimes  spotted,  and  in  no 
respects  presenting  the  characteristics  of  the  crystal.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  the  diamond  would  more  accurately 
answer  to  the  description  in  the  book  of  Revelation.  *  *  * 
\Ve  are  disposed  to  think  that  the  diamond  is  meant." 


"  TK  Tyrrhenian  waz-fs."     p.  63. 


The  deep,  bright  blue  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea  led  Prof 
12* 


274  APPENDIX. 

Tyndall  to  make  some  interesting  experiments  as  to  the  cause 
of  the  intense  color. 


"  That  old  City  of  the  Blind:'    p.  64. 

Different  reasons  are  given  why  ancient  Chalcedon  was 
called  the  City  of  the  Blind  :  one  is,  that  it  was  founded  by  a 
colony  of  blind  men — a  notion'which  is  sufficiently  refuted  by 
its  own  absurdity :  another  is,  that  the  settlers,  though  not 
literally,  were  metaphorically  blind,  because  they  heedlessly 
chose  a  bad  situation,  when,  if  they  had  kept  their  eyes  open, 
they  could  not  have  failed  to  see  and  choose  the  neigh 
boring  and  more  beautiful  spot  which  was  afterward  occu 
pied  by  Constantinople. 


"  The  fifth,  a  sard"     p.  64. 

In  King  James's  version,  the  word  for  the  fifth  stone  is 
sardonyx.  But  as  Josephus,  in  one  place,  says  that  the  first 
stone  in  the  High-Priest's  Breastplate  was  the  sardius,  and, 
in  another  place,  that  it  was  the  sardonyx,  the  implication  is 
that  sardius  and  sardonyx  were  two  names  for  the  same 
stone.  The  Rev.  William  Houghton,  in  the  Dictionary  of 
the  Bible,  writes : 


NOTES.  275 

"  As  sardonyx  is  merely  another  variety  of  agate,  to  which 
also  sardius  belongs,  there  is  no  great  discrepancy  in  the 
statement  of  the  Jewish  historian." 

C.  W.  King,  M.A.,  in  his  Natural  History  of  Gems, 
speaking  of  the  sard,  sardius,  or  oriental  carnelian,  says  : 

"  Of  the  modern  carnelian  the  derivations  are  numerous, 
the  usual  one  being  assigned  from  its  color  of  raw  flesh, 
carncus" 


"  The  sixth,  a  ruby"     p.  64. 

The  common  version  reads,  "The  sixth,  sardius;"  but 
the  original  word,  which  is  here  rendered  sardius,  is  else 
where,  in  the  same  version,  rendered  ruby. 


"Like  th*  ensanguined ivine 

That  filed  the  Holy  Grail. "     p.  64. 

Dunlop,  in  his  History  of  Fiction,  says: 

"St.  Grael,  or  Sangrael,  so  called  from  Grasal,  which  sig 
nifies  a  cup  in  old  French,  or  from  the  Sanguis  Realis  [the 
blood  of  Christ]  with  which  it  was  supposed  to  have  been 
filled.  *  *  *  On  the  day  of  the  Crucifixion,  Joseph  of  Ari- 


276  APPENDIX. 

mathea  obtained  possession  of  the  Hanap,  or  cup,  from 
which  his  Master  had,  on  the  preceding  evening,  drunk  with 
his  Apostles.  Before  he  interred  the  body  of  our  Saviour,  he 
filled  the  vessel  with  the  blood  which  flowed  from  His 
wounds  ;  but  the  exasperated  Jews  soon  afterward  deprived 
him  of  this  holy  relic,  and  sent  him  to  a  prison  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Jerusalem.  Here  his  departed  Master  appeared 
to  him,  and  comforted  his  captivity  by  restoring  the  sacred 
Hanap.  At  length,  in  the  forty-second  year  of  his  confine 
ment,  he  was  freed  from  prison  by  Titus,  the  Roman  Empe 
ror.  After  his  deliverance,  he  proceeded  to  preach  the 
Gospel  in  this  country  [Great  Britain].  After  the  arrival  of 
Joseph  with  the  sacred  cup  in  Britain,  the  romance  is  chiefly 
occupied  with  the  miracles  accomplished  by  the  Sangrael ; 
the  preparation  of  the  Round  Table  of  Arthur,  who  left  a 
vacant  place  for  this  relic  ;  and,  finally,  the  achievements 
performed  by  his  knights  to  recover  this  treasure,  which  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  king  Pecheur,  so  called  from  his 
celebrity  as  an  angler,  or  his  notoriety  as  a  sinner." 


"  The  eighth,  a  beryl."     p.  64. 
Mr.  Houghton  writes  : 


NOTES.  277 

"  It  is  impossible  to  say,  with  any  degree  of  certainty,  what 
precious  stone  is  denoted  by  the  Hebrew  word  (Tarshish.} 
Luther  reads  the  turquoise  ;  the  Septuagint  supposes  either 
the  chrysolite,  or  the  carbuncle  ;  Onkelos  and  the  Jerusalem 
have  kcrum  jama,  by  which  the  Jews  appear  to  have  under 
stood  a  -  white  stone,  like  the  froth  of  the  sea.'  " 


"  Like  Lilith,  Adam's  earlier  bride 

Ere  Eve  ivas  moulded  from  his  side."     p.  65. 

The  Kabala  has  a  myth  that  Adam,  in  Paradise,  had  a 
wife  named  Lilith,  who  dwelt  with  him  before  the  creation  of 
Eve.  This  "  earlier  bride  "  is  rarely  mentioned  by  poets,  but 
Rosetti  has  the  following  lines  : 

"  Of  Adam's  first  wife  Lilith,  it  is  told 

(The  witch  he  loved  before  the  gift  of  Eve) 
That,  ere  the  snake's,  her  sweet  tongue  could  deceive." 


"  The  eleventh,  ajatinth."     p.  65. 

The  words  jacinth  and   hyacinth  are   etymologically  the 
same. 


2;8  APPENDIX. 

— Touching  the  differences  of  opinion  among  commenta 
tors  on  the  twelve  stones,  Dr.  Thomson,  author  of  the  Land 
and  the  Book,  has  these  remarks  : 

"  I  venture  to  say  that  this  donkey-boy  coming  to  meet  us 
could  confound  nine-tenths  of  Bible  readers  in  America  by 
his  familiar  acquaintance  with  the  names,  appearances,  and 
relative  value  of  the  precious  stones  mentioned  in  the  Word  of 
God.  St.  John  was  not  a  scholar,  nor  a  lapidary,  and  yet  he 
is  perfectly  at  home  among  precious  stones,  and  without 
effort  gives  a  list  which  has  puzzled,  and  does  still  puzzle, 
our  wisest  scholars  to  understand.  In  our  translation,  and 
in  every  other  with  which  I  am  acquainted,  the  same  Hebrew 
word  is  made  to  stand  for  entirely  different  gems  ;  and  lexi 
cographers,  commentators,  and  critics  are  equally  uncer 
tain." 


"  To  royal  Shiraz  leads"     p.  66. 

Moore,  in  Lalla  Rookh,  speaks  of 

— "  that  courteous  tree 
Which  bows  to  all  who  seek  its  canopy." 

This  tree,  according  to  Niebuhr,  is  of  the  genus  mimosa, 


NOTES. 


279 


and  "  droops  its  branches  whenever  any  person  approaches 
it,  seeming  as  if  it  saluted  those  who  retire  under  its  shade." 


"  IV here  the  rose-gardens  are"     p.  66. 

The  rose-gardens  of  Shiraz  were  so  famous  among  the 
Persians  that  the  works  of  Saadi,  the  Persian  poet  (who  lived 
in  that  city)  were  called  "  The  Gulistan,"  or  the  rose-garden. 


"  The  pitcher  at  the  fountain 's  rim,"     p.  69. 

Ecclesiastes  12:6. 


THE    CHANT    CELESTIAL. 

"  Till  marble  Memnon  heard  it  and  made  answer"    p.  82. 

The  poetic  story  that  the  statue  of  Memnon,  when  smitten 
by  the  morning  light,  gave  forth  music,  has  a  basis  of  truth 
in  the  fact  that  the  stone, — which  cools  by  night,  to  be  heated 
again  by  day, — emits,  during  this  daily  process  of  contrac 
tion  and  expansion,  certain  crackling  sounds  ;  and  many 


280  APPENDIX. 

trustworthy  travelers  testify  that  they  have  heard  these  mur 
murs  quite  distinctly. 


Upon  the  waters  of  Castalia's  fount"    p.  87. 
See  note  p.  19. 


Till  Odin  heard  them  on  the  tree  Ygdrasil"    p.  87. 
See  note  p.  16. 


THE    GRAVE   ON   THE    PRAIRIE. 

4 '  And  twinkled  in  reflection. "     p.  TOO. 

When  a  flower-clad  prairie  is  perfectly  level  (as  many  are) 
the  sunshine  is  reflected  from  the  flowers  to  the  spectator 
from  as  many  points  as  from  the  multitudinous  ripples  of  a 
lake  ;  the  general  picture  being  far  more  bespangled  than  if 
the  same  number  of  flowers  were  distributed  over  a  rolling 
country,  or  hill  and  vale. 


NOTES.  28l 

"  Because  a  live-oak  grc~i>  hard  by. 
*  *  *  *  * 

And  long ;  gray  moss,  with  mournful  grate."    p.  101. 

Gigantic  live-oak  trees,  hung  with  trailing  gray  moss,  are 
among  the  conspicuous  objects  which  strike  the  eye  of  a  trav 
eler  in  the  southern  portion  of  the  United  States. 


"  Then,  while  the  bison  joined  his  herd"    p.  102. 

The  animal  popularly  called  the  buffalo  belongs  to  zoology 
under  the  name  of  the  bison. 


"  The  startled  rabbit  bounded"    p.  102. 

There  is  a  species  of  rabbit  peculiar  to  Texas.  It  is  called 
the  Texan  hare,  or  (vulgarly)  "  jackass  rabbit ;  "  bearing  the 
latter  name  because  its  ears  (which  arc  five  or  six  inches 
long)  are  shaped  like  those  of  a  donkey.  These  great  rabbits 
are  often  larger  than  the  dogs  that  hunt  them. 


"  The  cattus"  etc.     p.  102. 
Millions  of  these  grotesque  plants  are  scattered  over  the 


282  APPENDIX. 

prairies  of  Texas.  Sometimes  a  cluster  is  so  huge  as  to 
measure  a  hundred  feet  in  circumference, — reaching  to  the 
height  of  a  man's  head  on  horseback,  and  even  higher.  The. 
bristling  spines  protect  the  leaves  against  all  enemies  save 
mildews  and  worms. 


' '  No  wanderer  ever  went  that  way 
Except  some  cattle-ranger ."    p.  103. 

It  is  no  uncommon  thing  in  Texas  for  a  man  to  own  ten, 
fifteen,  or  twenty  thousand  head  of  cattle  and  as  many  horses  ; 
putting  to  shame  the  meagre  flocks  and  herds  of  the  patriarchs 
of  the  Old  Testament.  The  Texan  herdsmen,  who  look  after 
these  immense  droves,  range  on  horseback  over  hundreds  of 
'miles  of  wild  prairie. 


"  Whose  year  is  un-Decembered."    p.  105. 

Although  this  expression  is  somewhat  exaggerated,  still  in 
the  neighborhood  of  San  Antonio,  and  in  many  other  locali 
ties  in  Texas,  settlers  who  live  in  small,  thatched  cabins  are 
frequently  seen  at  night  sleeping  out  of  doors  in  mid- winter. 


NOTES.  283 

PRINCE    AND    PEASANT. 

"  The  King  of  Bernicia, "  etc.     p.  127. 

Bernicia  was  the  old  name  for  that  part  of  Britain  which 
contained  what  are  now  called  the  Cheviot  Hills  and  the 
River  Tweed. 


THE    KING'S    COURAGE. 

"  The  king — who  loved  two  women— both  at  once.'1     p.  225. 

The  historic  incident  on  which  thisyVw  d' esprit  is  founded 
is  given  by  Plutarch  in  his  Life  of  Dion. 


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